WELL  TOLD  TALES 


SHEILA 


K****4 


ANNIES.  SWAN 


SHEILA'S  VISIT  TO  ACHXAFAULD, 


SHEILA 


BY 

ANNIE   S.   SWAN 

Author  of 
'  GATES  OF  EDEN,"  "  BRIAR  AND  PALM,"  "  ST.  VEDA'S,"  Etc. 


CINCINNATI:    JENNINGS    &    PYE 
NEW    YORK:     EATON    &    MAINS 


TO 

HER    GRACE 
THE  DUCHESS-DOWAGER    OF   ATHOLE. 


LADY,  I  lay  these  pages  at  thy  feet : 
Writ)  as  thou  knoufst,  among  the  silent,  hills, 
By  the  swift-flowing  stream,  whose  murmuring  voice 
Bears  in  its  tone  the  music  of  the  past. 
And  if  the  record  of  the  young  hearfs  life, 
The  heritage  of  joy,  the  cross  of  pain, 
By  which  on  earth  it  is  made  meet  for  Heart  n, 
Awake  in  thine  a  tender  memory 
Of  other  days,  when  that  bright  radiant  light, 
The  love  which  is  life's  crown,  illumined  thine, 
It  is  enough  :  I  lay  it  at  thy  feet. 

ANNIE   S.   SWAN. 


CONTENTS. 


CHIP. 

I.  THE  I^AIRD'S  WOOING,     . 

II.   BROTHER  AND   SISTER,     . 

III.  I*A.DY   AILSA'S   OPINION,   . 

IV.  WELCOME  HOME, 

V.  THE  KIRK  OF  AMULREE, 

VI.   THE  KETHER  MILLSTONE, 

VII.    BAIRN   DAYS, 

VIII.   AMONG  THE  FAULD   FOLK, 

IX.   THE  SHADOW   OF   DEATH, 

X.  ESTRANGED, 

XI.  A  WILY  PLOTTER, 
XII.  FACTOR  AND  LAIRD, 

XIII.  FORESHADOWINGS, 

XIV.  MALCOLM,  .  . 
XV.   UNCLE   GRAHAM, 

XVI.   MOTHER  AND   SON,  . 

XVII.    CIIUMS, 
XVIII.    HOME   AGAIN,        .  . 


Til 


PAOI 

9 
19 

28 

37 

46 

55 

63 

72 

84 

93 

103 

113 

122 

130 

139 

148 

157 

166 


?iii  CONTENTS. 

CHAP  PA01 

XIX.   TUB   LAST  MEETING,     .  .  .  .  .175 

XX.   AN    UNWELCOME    INTRUDER,      .  .  .  .184 

xxi.  'FAREWELL  TO  LOCHABER,'    .  .  .  .192 

xxii.  SHEILA'S  INHERITANCE,  ....      202 

XXIII.  FLANS,  ......        210 

XXIV.  THE  AWAKENING,  .  .  .  .  ,218 
XXV.   HOME,                   ......        225 

XXVI.   HER   OWN  FOLK,  .....        233 

XXVII.   HER   RESOLVE,  .....        241 

xxviii.  COUSINS,          ......  249 

XXIX.  SCHEMING  STILL,        .        .  f           .           .           .  258 

XXX.  LOVE'S  TOUNG  DREAM,           ....  265 

XXXI.  IN  BITTERNESS  OF  SOUL,         ....  273 

XXXIL  ALASTAIR'S  WOOING,  .....  281 

XXXIIL  THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  THE  YEAR,       .           .           .  290 

xxxiv.  NEW  TEAR'S  MORN,     .           .           .           .           .  299 

XXXV.  SIGNS  OF  EVIL,           .....  307 

XXXVI.  MT  WIFE,        ......  315 

XXXVII.  A  DARK  NIGHT,          .....  323 

XXXVIII.  PEACE,  .  .  .  .  .  .331 

XXYTY.  IIACDONALD'S  LAST  WILL,      ....  338 

XL.  'THE  CAMPBELLS  ARE  COMIN'.'          .  .  .  345 

XLI.  A  MAIDEN'S  HEART,    .....  353 

XLII.  *A  JUDEECIOUS  FBICHT,'        ....  361 

XLIII.  LOVE'S  CROWN,  .....  871 


SHEILA. 


CHAPTER  L 


THE    LAIRD'S  WOOING. 

'Might  we  but  share  one  wild  caress, 
Ere  life's  autumnal  blossoms  fall?' 

0.  W.  HOLMS. 

IIEILA,  are  you  ever  a  moment  still  ?     You'll  have 
every  spring  in  mamma's  poor  old  couch  broken.' 

The  reproof  was  very  gently  uttered,  in  a  sweet, 
caressing  voice,  but  the  child  to  whom  it  was 
administered  felt  it  to  be  a  reproof,  and,  desisting  from  her 
boisterous  gambolling  with  Tory,  her  little  fox  terrier,  came 
close  to  her  mother's  side  and  looked  up  into  her  face.  They 
were  mother  and  child,  though  one  would  scarcely  have 
imagined  it.  The  mother's  golden  brown  hair  was  confined 
under  a  close  widow's  cap,  but  the  sweet,  somewhat  careworn 
face  tinder  it  seemed  only  a  girl's.  Edith  Murray  had  kept 
her  youth  well,  though  she  had  been  a  widow  for  nearly  five 
years.  Her  white  hand  rested  lovingly  on  the  child's  tumbled 
brown  curls,  and  she  smiled  into  the  large,  soft,  hazel  eyes, 
so  like  her  own,  which  were  uplifted  to  her  face. 
« Well,  Sheila,  what  now?  ' 

'  Can  Anne  take  me,  mamma,  away  up  the  river,  Tory  and 
me?     Fm  so  tired  staying  in  the  house.* 


io  SHEILA. 

'Not  to-day,  darling.  Mamma  will  need  you  by  and  by. 
But  you  and  Tory  may  go  out  to  the  garden  for  a  frolic,  only 
don't  let  him  chew  Anne's  linen  bleaching  on  the  grass.' 

'Very  well,  mamma,  thank  you.  Come,  Tory,  Tory;  oh, 
you  dear,  funny  little  dog  1 ' 

She  went  through  the  wide  open  window  on  to  the  little 
lawn  like  an  arrow,  Tory  tumbling  and  rolling  on  the  top  of 
her,  chewing  her  sash  ribbons  and  snapping  at  her  toes.  They 
were  both  babies,  and  the  one  enjoyed  the  fun  as  much  as  the 
other.  Sheila  Murray,  the  widow's  one  child,  and  therefore 
boundlessly  precious,  seemed  to  bear  a  charmed  life.  She 
was  filled  with  frolic  and  fun,  and  was  never  a  moment  still 
from  the  time  the  big  hazel  eyes  opened  in  the  morning  till 
the  sleepy  lids  drooped  over  them  at  night.  But  though  she 
had  been  in  perils  oft,  and  had  been  nearly  drowned  in  the 
swift  Tay  more  than  once,  her  escapes  neither  sobered  nor 
frightened  her.  She  did  not  even  know  the  meaning  of  fear. 

It  was  not  often  Edith  Murray  sat  with  idle  hands,  but  after 
child  and  dog  had  disappeared  through  the  high  privet  hedge 
into  the  back  garden,  she  sat  quite  still,  looking  in  the  direction 
they  had  taken,  but  her  thoughts  had  not  followed  them. 
'It  is  for  the  child's  sake,'  she  whispered  to  herself  after  a 
while.  '  And  what  have  I  to  do  with  the  world,  or  the  world 
with  me  ?  ' 

It  was  as  if  she  had  been  balanced  between  two  opinions, 
hesitating  between  two  diverging  paths,  and  had  suddenly 
found  strength  of  mind  to  decide.  Her  face  cleared  of  its 
anxious  expression,  and  a  kind  of  sunny  brightness  seemed 
to  pervade  her  whole  being.  But  she  was  feeling  nervous, 
for,  in  spite  of  her  outward  self-control,  her  hands  trembled 
when  she  took  up  the  little  frock  she  had  been  embroidering 
for  her  child. 

Though  still  young  in  years,  Edith  Murray  was  old  in  the 
experience  of  life.  She  was  English  by  birth,  and  connected 
with  a  very  old  Lincolnshire  family.  But  the  branch  to  which 
she  belonged  had  been  very  poor,  and  when  she  found  herself 
early  orphaned,  she  had  to  face  the  world  in  her  search  for 
daily -bread.  She  had  rich  and  titled  relations,  but  they  knew 


THE  LAIRD'S  WOOING.  \  \ 

not  the  poor,  obscure  girl  who  made  an  appeal  for  their  aid. 
They  advised  her  to  try  the  usual  medium  through  which 
teaching  appointments  are  to  be  got,  and  washed  their  hands 
of  her.  That  bitter  sting  remained  long  in  Edith  Chesney's 
gentle  heart;  but  she  was  fortunate  beyond  others  of  her  class  in 
finding  a  home  and  friends  among  strangers.  She  left  England 
to  become  governess  in  the  family  of  a  Scotch  baronet,  whose 
residence  was  in  Perthshire,  five  miles  from  the  ancient  and 
picturesque  town  of  Dunkeld.  Sir  Douglas  Murray  himself 
was  a  stiff,  proud,  unyielding  man,  whom  not  many  loved; 
but  his  wife,  Lady  Ailsa,  was  one  of  the  sweetest  and  best  of 
women.  Although  an  earl's  daughter  herself,  she  made  the 
friendless  orphan  feel  truly  at  home  in  Murrayshaugh,  and 
among  her  four  boy  pupils  Edith  Chesney  was  very  happy. 
She  had  not  been  long  an  inmate  of  the  house,  however,  when 
Alastair  Murray,  Sir  Douglas's  brother,  a  lieutenant  in  the 
93rd  Highlanders,  fell  in  love  with  the  sweet,  gentle,  gracious 
girl  who  taught  his  brother's  boys.  Of  course  there  was  the 
usual  opposition  from  the  bridegroom's  family.  Not  only  did 
they  object  to  the  marriage  from  motives  of  pride,  but  also  of 
prudence,  for  Alastair  had  not  a  farthing  in  the  world  but  his 
lieutenant's  pay.  But  when  did  young  love  ever  count  pounds, 
shillings,  and  pence  ?  They  were  married,  and  though  barrack 
life  had  its  drawbacks,  and  it  was  no  easy  task  to  lay  out  their 
meagre  income  judiciously,  they  were  ridiculous  enough  to 
be  perfectly  happy  and  contented  for  a  few  brief  months  in 
Edinburgh  Castle,  until  the  gallant  93rd  was  ordered  to  the 
Crimea.  Then  husband  and  wife  parted,  not  knowing  they 
should  meet  no  more  on  earth. 

When  Edith  was  ill  at  Murrayshaugh,  and  a  week-old  baby 
in  the  cot,  the  news  came  home  that  Lieutenant  Alastair 
Murray  had  fallen  in  the  trenches  before  Sebastopol.  The 
poor  young  widow  and  her  baby-daughter  were  thus  left 
entirely  dependent  on  the  Murrays.  Sir  Douglas  did  his 
duty,  as  he  saw  it,  but  it  was  done  in  a  spirit  which  could 
not  fail  to  wound  a  sensitive  soul. 

He  gave  her  one  of  his  own  cottages  in  Birnam,  paid  her 
servant's  wages,  and  gave  her  fifty  pounds  a  year.  This,  Lady 


12  SHEILA. 

Ailsa,  out  of  the  loving-kindness  of  her  heart,  and  unknown 
indeed  to  her  husband,  supplemented  with  many  a  kind  and 
handsome  gift.  Sir  Douglas  regarded  his  sister-in-law  as  a 
burden  upon  him,  and  one  which  ought  never  to  have  been 
laid  upon  him.  But  though  he  gave  her  of  his  substance 
grudgingly,  he  frowned  her  down  when  she  had  meekly 
suggested  trying  to  earn  her  own  living,  as  she  had  done 
previous  to  her  marriage. 

'Remember,  Mrs.  Alastair,  you  are  one  of  "us"  now,'  he 
had  said,  -with  his  haughty  head  high  in  the  air,  and  the  most 
unbending  severity  of  look  and  tone.  So  poor  Mrs.  Alastair 
could  only  eat  meekly  of  the  bread  of  charity,  and  how  bitter 
she  found  it  to  the  taste  no  one  but  herself  knew.  But  for 
her  child's  love,  and  her  faith  in  God's  care,  she  would 
have  given  way  to  despair.  There  were  times,  however, 
when  looking  forward  she  did  despair.  Year  by  year,  as  Sheila 
grew  older,  expenses  were  increasing.  More  cloth  was  required 
for  the  little  frocks,  and  a  few  shillings  more  for  boots  and 
slippers — and  what  was  to  become  of  the  child's  future? 
Mrs.  Alastair  was  a  great  deal  alone,  and  she  brooded  over 
these  things  perhaps  more  than  she  ought.  An  occasional 
dinner  at  Murrayshaugh  was  her  only  experience  of  social 
life,  and  though  she  never  failed  to  impress  Lady  Ailsa's 
guests  with  her  sweetness  and  grace,  the  idea  that  any  one 
could  be  specially  interested  in  her  never  presented  itself  to 
her  mind.  She  believed  that  she  had  lived  her  life,  but  she 
had  that  day  received  a  great  surprise — the  greatest,  indeed, 
which  had  ever  ruffled  the  quiet  current  of  her  days.  She 
took  the  letter  from  her  pocket,  and  read  it  again  for  the 
twentieth  time.  It  was  very  short,  and  very  much  to  the 
point.  The  concluding  sentences  appealed  to  something  in 
her  heart  she  had  fancied  no  power  on  earth  could  again 
awaken.  'You  are  the  only  woman  I  have  ever  seen  who 
ever  cost  me  a  second  thought.  If  you  will  marry  me,  I  will 
do  my  utmost  to  make  you  happy.  What  jour  answer  may 
mean  to  me  I  can  scarcely  permit  myself  to  think.  Madam, 
I  cannot  wait  for  it.  I  will  therefore  call  to-morrow  afternoon 
to  receive  it  from  your  own  lips.' 


THE  LAIRD'S  WOOING.  13 

Such  were  the  words  Edith  Murray  had  read  so  often  that 
day  that  they  seemed  engraven  on  her  heart.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  them  when  she  heard  the  sharp  click  of  the  garden 
gate  and  a  firm  step  on  the  gravelled  walk.  Then  the  bell  rang, 
and  almost  before  she  could  collect  her  wavering,  trembling 
senses,  the  visitor  was  announced. 

'Mr.  Graham  Macdonald.' 

Mrs.  Alastair  rose  hurriedly  to  her  feet,  and,  with  crimson 
face,  extended  her  hand  in  greeting. 

'  I  hope  I  see  you  well,  madam  ? '  Macdonald  said,  with  a 
rugged,  old-fashioned  courtesy  ;  but  his  deep,  keen,  flashing 
blue  eye  dwelt  on  the  sweet  face  as  if  he  sought  to  read  her 
very  soul. 

Tall,  broad-shouldered,  strong  of  limb  and  will,  was  this 
rugged  Highland  laird,  who  had  done  his  wooing  in  such  a 
rough  and  ready  fashion  without  any  of  the  preliminaries  of 
courting.  He  had  but  seen  her  twice  at  Murrayshaugh,  but  the 
first  time  he  took  her  in  to  dinner  he  knew  that  if  she  would 
have  him  he  would  make  her  his  wife.  Macdonald  was  not 
handsome,  but  he  had  a  powerful  and  not  ungraceful  figure, 
a  striking  if  rather  stern-looking  face,  and  an  honest,  flashing 
eye,  which  had  never  feared  the  face  of  man.  He  was  a 
descendant  of  an  old  and  honourable  family,  who  had  at  one 
time  held  large  estates  in  the  far  north.  But  the  vicissitudes 
of  war  and  the  fickleness  of  fortune  had  wrested  these  from  it 
It  was  only  after  the  rebellion  of  '45  that  Dalmore,  in  Glen- 
quaich,  and  Eindowie,  in  Strathbraan — the  present  estates  of 
the  Macdonalds — came  into  the  possession  of  the  family. 
Graham  Macdonald  was  a  proud  man,  and  had  the  reputation 
of  being  hard  of  heart  and  greedy  of  gold.  But  the  man  had 
another  side — a  fine,  generous,  loveable  side — which  was  now 
to  come  to  the  front.  Until  love  for  this  woman  had  touched 
his  being,  he  had  had  no  experience  of  the  sweeter  influences 
of  life.  Love  was  not  the  less  sincere,  and  even  passionate, 
that  it  had  come  to  him  so  late.  He  was  now  in  his  fifty- 
fifth  year.  Hasty  of  action,  though  somewhat  slow  of  speech, 
he  had  risked  his  happiness  on  the  very  slight  acquaintance 
he  had  with  Mrs.  Alastair,  and  now  had  come  in  person  for 


14  SHEILA. 

his  answer.  He  did  not  sit  down  in  her  presence,  though  she 
begged  him  to  do  so.  He  saw  her  extreme  nervousness — 
indeed,  the  fluctuating  colour  on  her  face  and  the  downcast, 
womanly  manner  might  have  given  him  hope — but  what  did 
the  grim  Laird  of  Dalmore  know  of  women  and  their  ways  ? 

Mrs.  Alastair  saw  that  she  must  speak,  for  the  Laird  had  not 
a  word  to  say  for  himself  now  he  had  come  for  his  answer. 
But  while  she  was  trying  to  find  words  to  open  the  conversa- 
tion, they  were  interrupted  by  Tory's  sharp  little  bark  and  the 
sound  of  hurrying  feet,  and  the  next  moment  Sheila  darted 
into  the  room.  She  was  not  a  shy  child,  and  she  rushed  at 
once  to  the  Laird's  side  and  thrust  her  hand  into  his  pocket. 

*  Sheila,  Sheila!  you    naughty    child,'    said    Mrs.    Alastair 
reprovingly.     '  Run  away  to  Anne.' 

Macdonald  stooped  down  and  took  the  child  in  his  strong 
arms,  and  instantly  her  little  hands  clasped  his  neck,  and  she 
bent  upon  him  the  pair  of  loveliest,  most  innocent  baby  eyes  he 
had  ever  seen. 

*  Any  rock  ? ' 

1  No,  but  there's  something  to  buy  it  with  in  the  pockets  you 
were  at  just  now,'  said  the  Laird,  with  a  smile  which  Mrs. 
Alastair  thought  made  his  face  almost  handsome.  *  I  have  just 
been  asking  your  mamma  to  come  and  live  at  my  house,  Sheila, 
you  and  she,  and  you  would  have  a  pony  to  ride  on,  and  all 
sorts  of  things.' 

'  We'll  go  to-morrow,'  said  Sheila,  quite  excitedly ;  '  is  it  far 
away  ? ' 

'  Not  very ;  but  see  what  mamma  says.  I  think  she  is  not 
quite  sure  about  it,'  said  Macdonald,  finding  a  fine  easy  way 
out  of  his  dilemma.  Poor,  innocent  Sheila!  she  was  quite 
unconscious  what  a  momentous  question  she  was  called  upon  to 
decide. 

'Oh,  mamma  always  does  what  I  want,'  said  Sheila,  with 
delightful  confidence.  '  How  soon  can  we  go  ?  To-morrow  ? 
Will  you  take  us  after  breakfast?  Anne  gives  me  my  porridge 
at  eight,  mamma  has  her  coffee  at  nine.  We'll  go  at  ten  1 ' 

'  Oh,  Sheila,  Sheila  I '  Mrs.  Alastair  rose  with  crimson  face, 
and  rang  the  bell. 


THE  LAIRD'S  WOOING.  15 

*  Take   Sheila  away,  Anne,'  she  said,  when  the  girl   camp. 
'  Keep  her  with  you  till  I  ring.' 

So  Sheila  was  ignominiously  dismissed,  but  she  had  settled 
the  question  all  the  same,  and  both  the  Laird  and  Mrs.  Alastair 
knew  it. 

Macdonald  sat  down  beside  her,  and  took  her  soft  hand  in 
his.  'You  will  never  regret  it,  madam,' he  said,  in  his  some- 
what formal  way,  '  nor  shall  Sheila.  I  owe  her  a  great  deal  for 
helping  me  out  of  this  dilemma.' 

So  they  laughed,  and  shook  hands  xipon  it,  and  were  very 
happy  in  a  kind  of  sober  fashion,  as  befitted  a  pair  whose  first 
youth  was  past. 

*  Mr.  Macdonald,'  said  Mrs.  Alastair,  after  a  little,  '  do  you 
think  your  sister  will  be  quite  pleased  at  this?' 

*  She  may  or  she  may  not.     Ellen  is  rather  queer,'  said  the 
Laird  briefly.      '  It  has  suited  her  to  dwell  with  me  since  the 
minister  of  Meiklemore  died,  but  there  was  no  promise  given 
that  Dalmore  should  be  a  permanent  home.      She  and  the  boy 
shall  never  want;  and  even  if  I  do  nothing  for  them,  her  own 
portion  would  be  sufficient  for  his  rearing.     She  talks  whiles  of 
making  him  a  minister,  but  truly  I  think  the  lad  too  manly 
ever  to  put  on  gown  and  bands.' 

'  Does  she  know  you  are  here  to-day  ? ' 

'No;  my  business  is  my  own  business,  and  she'll  get  to 
know  in  good  time,'  said  Macdonald  grimly.  '  You  need  not 
be  surprised  if  she  pays  you  a  visit  soon.  That  would  be  the 
right  thing,  wouldn't  it?' 

A  slight  shadow  crossed  Edith  Murray's  fair  face. 

'I  am  afraid  of  Mrs.  Macleod.  She  was  very  distant  and 
haughty,  I  thought,  the  last  time  I  met  her  at  Murrayshaugh,' 
she  said  timidly. 

'  You  need  not  be.  Ellen  is  an  ill  woman  to  bide  with,  I'll 
admit,  but  you  will  not  require  to  bide  with  her.  She  shall 
have  a  house  of  her  own  before  you  come  to  Dalmore.' 

'I  fear  she  will  not  bear  me  any  goodwill  for  her  own  and 
Her  boy's  sake,'  said  Edith  Murray,  with  a  sigh.  'I  wish  I 
knew  whether  I  am  doing  right  ? ' 

'  If  you  are  doing  that  which  your  heart  tells  you,  madam, 


1 6  SHEILA. 

it  is  right.  And  why  should  7  not  be  allowed  to  choose  my 
wife  as  Ellen  herself  chose  her  husband,  and  a  fine  noise  there 
was  about  that.  The  minister  of  Meiklemore  was  not  con- 
sidered a  fit  mate  for  a  Macdonald  of  Dalmore.' 

'  So  I  have  heard  them  say ;  but  I  should  not  like  to  bring 
dispeace  into  Dalmore,'  said  Edith  Murray,  still  anxiously, 
though  Macdonald's  hearty  manner  somewhat  reassured  her. 

f  You  have  made  me  a  happy  man  this  day,'  he  said,  when 
he  rose  to  go ;  and  certainly  he  looked  it. 

4 1  hope  .1  shall  always  be  able  to  make  you  happy,'  Edith 
answered ;  for  her  heart  warmed  to  him,  he  was  so  honest,  and 
straightforward,  and  true. 

'  You  will  be  kind  to  Sheila?'  she  interposed,  as  they  parted  ; 
though  she  had  no  real  misgivings  about  it.  And  what  could 
Macdonald  say  but  that  he  would  love  the  child  for  her  dear 
sake? 

As  he  rode  away  from  the  gate  of  the  cottage,  a  carriage  and 
pair  swept  over  the  bridge  from  Dunkeld.  Its  occupants  were 
a  lady  and  gentleman,  Sir  Douglas  Murray  and  his  fair  wife — 
Mrs.  Aiastair's  aristocratic  kindred.  They  looked  at  each  other 
in  amazement  at  sight  of  Macdonald. 

'  Can  he  have  been  seeing  Edith  ? '  Lady  Ailsa  asked  in 
wonder. 

'It  looks  like  it;  but  you'll  hear  about  it  presently/  Sir 
Douglas  answered,  in  his  short  way.  '  Well,  we've  ten  minutes 
to  make  a  call,  so  don't  get  into  an  endless  gossip.' 

'  Oh,  Douglas,  you  are  hard  upon  me,'  laughed  his  wife,  as 
she  sprang  lightly  from  the  carriage  at  her  sister-in-law's  gate. 

Edith  Murray  saw  them  come,  and  wondered  in  what  words 
she  would  break  to  them  the  event  of  the  day.  Gentle  though 
she  was  by  nature,  she  could  not  help  a  slight  thrill  of  pride  at 
the  thought  that  she  was  the  promised  wife  of  a  man  whose 
great  possessions  far  exceeded  the  heritage  of  the  proud 
Murrays  of  Murray shaugh. 

'You  have  had  a  caller,  Mrs.  Alastair,'  said  Sir  Douglas, 
with  that  slight  sarcasm  of  manner  which  made  him  feared  of 
many ;  '  it  is  not  often  Dalmore  condescends  to  make  polite 
calls.' 


THE  LAIRD'S  WOOING.  1 7 

Mrs.  Alastair  sat  down  suddenly,  for  she  was  trembling  in 
every  limb.  The  colour  came  and  went  fitfully  across  her 
sweet  face,  as  she  lifted  her  eyes  with  firmness  to  the  face  of 
her  husband's  brother.  He  was  the  head  of  the  family,  and  it 
was  her  duty  to  acquaint  him  with  the  object  of  Dalmore's  visit. 

'  Mr.  Macdonald  came  to  see  me  to-day,  Sir  Douglas,  on  a 
special  errand,'  she  said  quietly  and  with  dignity,  though  her 
cheeks  and  hands  were  hotly  flushed.  '  He  has  done  me  the 
honour  to  ask  me  to  be  his  wife.' 

'  Bless  my  heart  and  soul ! ' 

Sir  Douglas  forgot  his  starched  dignity  for  a  moment,  and 
stared  in  the  most  profound  amazement.  '  His  wife,  Lady  of 
Dalmore  and  Findowie,  Mrs.  Alastair  ?  Impossible  1 ' 

*  It  is  true,  and  I  have  accepted  him,'  said  Mrs.  Alastair,  with 
a  sad  smile ;  then  suddenly  she  turned  to  Lady  Murray  with  a 
quick,  sobbing  breath.  '  Oh,  Ailsa,  if  I  have  done  wrong, 
forgive  me  I  It  is  so  hard  to  know  what  to  do  !  And  my  posi- 
tion here — oh,  I  do  not  wish  to  seem  ungrateful,  but  I  have  felt 
it  hard.  It  will  be  a  home  for  me  and  Sheila,  and  we  both 
need  it.  We  are  not  afraid  to  trust  ourselves  with  Macdonald 
of  Dalmore.' 

1  My  poor,  dear  Edith  1  I  am  so  glad.  Don't  cry,  my  darling, 
nor  tremble  so.  You  have  done  perfectly  right ;  and  oh,  I 
hope  you  will  be  happy,  dear,  and  find  the  happiness  you  hope 
for.  It  will  be  a  great  change  for  you,  Edith ;  and  we  will 
all  need  to  bow  before  the  Lady  of  Dalmore,  will  we  not, 
Douglas?' 

4  Lady  of  Dalmore,'  repeated  Sir  Douglas,  as  if  the  words  had 
a  charm  for  him.  '  Upon  my  word,  Mrs.  Alastair,  you  have 
done  splendidly.  Of -course  you  have  done  right.  No  woman 
in  her  senses  would  refuse  such  a  position,  and  I  congratulate 
you  with  all  my  heart.'  Sir  Douglas  was  perfectly  sincere  in 
what  he  said,  and  he  looked  at  his  sister-in-law  with  a  new 
interest  and  a  considerable  increase  of  respect.  The  penniless 
widow  of  his  brother  and  the  lady-elect  of  Dalmore  were  two 
different  beings.  '  We  must  go,  Ailsa,  if  you  wish  to  get  this 
train,'  said  Sir  Douglas  presently ;  and  with  ^enewed  con- 
gratulations they  left  her. 


1 8  SHEILA. 

'  What  will  Ellen  Macleod  say,  Douglas  ?  '  asked  Lady  Ailsa, 
as  they  stepped  into  the  carriage. 

'  Show  her  black  Macdonald  blood,'  said  Sir  Douglas  briefly. 
4  Mrs.  Alastair  is  quite  a  young  woman,  and  will  bring  an  heir 
to  Dalmore,  so  Fergus  Macleod  will  be  put  out.' 

Lady  Ailsa  sighed ;  she  seemed  to  see  trouble  ahead. 

'  Fergus  Macleod  will  have  his  mother's  portion,  Douglas,' 
she  said.  *  He  does  not  need  Dalmore.' 

'  The  mother's  portion  cannot  be  much.  I  don't  think  there 
is  money  among  the  Macdonalds,  and  if  Ellen  Macleod  offends 
Dalmore  just  now,  she  and  her  boy  may  find  themselves  badly 
enough  off.' 

*  She  will  be  certain  to  do  that,'  said  Lady  Ailsa,  rather 
sadly.  '  She  was  almost  rude  to  Mrs.  Alastair  the  last  time 
they  all  dined  at  Murrayshaugh.  I  should  think  Ellen 
Macleod  could  make  a  great  deal  of  unhappiness  if  she  chose.' 

'Well,  well,  let  them  fight  their  own  battles,'  said  Sir 
Douglas,  dismissing  the  subject  'If  Mrs.  Alastair  becomes 
Lady  of  Dalmore  and  Findowie,  she  can  afford  to  snap  her 
fingers  at  Ellen  Macleod.' 


CHAPTER  IL 


BROTHER    AND    SISTER. 

•0  haughty  heart,  hard  girt  about  with  the  grim  panoply  of  Belt* 

ALMORE  had  a  ten  miles'  ride  before  him,  but  ha 
was  in  no  hurry  to  reach  home.  The  reins  lay 
loosely  on  the  mare's  glossy  neck,  and  she  took  her 
own  time  ascending  the  hill  from  Birnam.  It  was 
a  warm,  sultry  summer  night ;  a  haze  of  heat  hung  low  in  the 
valleys,  and  made  mysterious  mist-wreaths  along  the  mountain- 
sides. Here  and  there  the  silver  crest  of  a  birch  tree  would 
peep  out  weirdly  from  the  hillside,  or  the  tall  head  of  some 
giant  beech  or  oak  would  stand  out  strangely  from  the  sea  of 
mist  in  the  low  grounds,  but  the  Laird  had  no  attention  for 
these  things.  Any  one  meeting  him  could  have  told  that  he 
was  deeply  absorbed  in  thought,  but  what  these  thoughts  were 
it  would  have  been  difficult  to  determine  from  the  expression 
on  his  face.  It  was  a  strange,  striking  face;  rugged,  powerful, 
suggestive  of  extraordinary  strength  of  mind  and  will,  but 
giving  but  little  indication,  if  any,  of  the  finer  feelings  which 
beautify  human  character.  His  heavy  brows  were  knit,  his 
mouth  set  in  a  grim,  stern  curve;  but  in  his  downcaft  eyes 
there  shone  a  curious  light,  for  Graham  Macdonald  was  think- 
ing of  the  woman  he  loved.  He  had  met  her  years  ago  at 

Murrayshaugh,  where  she  was  governess  to  the  children  of  Sir 

u 


20  SHEILA. 

Douglas,  and  had  been  drawn  to  her  then,  though  she  was  but 
a  girl,  and  he  a  man  of  middle  age.  But  Alastair  Murray  was 
before  him,  and  if  Dalmore  had  ever  dreamed  any  sweet 
dreams  of  Edith  Chesney,  her  marriage  with  the  younger 
Murray  dispelled  it.  So  he  returned  to  his  lonely  dwelling  on 
the  slope  of  bleak  Crom  Creagh,  and  took  up  again  the  routine 
of  his  life,  but  somehow  it  seemed  to  possess  less  of  interest 
or  pleasure  for  him.  A  few  months  after  Edith  Chesney 's 
marriage,  the  minister  of  Meiklemore,  the  husband  of  Mac- 
donald's  only  sister,  Ellen  died  suddenly,  and  left  her  with 
one  little  boy  of  two  years.  It  seemed  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world  that  Ellen  Macdonald  should  return  to 
Dalmore,  and  there  she  had  dwelt  in  peace  and  security  for 
three  years.  What  castles  she  may  have  built  for  her  own  boy 
we  shall  learn  hereafter.  She  had  not  the  remotest  idea  that 
Lady  Murray's  governess  could  even  have  possessed  the  slightest 
interest  for  her  brother.  He  was  not  a  marrying  man,  nor  one 
of  those  who  lavished  attentions  on  ladies.  He  had  rather  the 
reputation  of  being  a  bore  and  a  misanthrope  ;  therefore  Ellen 
Macleod  apprehended  no  evil.  As  for  imagining  that  Mrs. 
Alastair,  the  Murrays*  poor  relation,  could  be  a  lion  in  her 
path,  she  would  have  drawn  herself  up  with  indignation  at  the 
mere  suggestion  of  such  a  thing.  Ellen  Macdonald  was  a 
proud,  haughty,  hard-natured  woman.  How  she  had  stooped  to 
marry  the  poor  minister  of  Meiklemore,  though  he  was  a  Macleod 
of  Pitleoch,  was  a  mystery  not  solvable  by  any  who  knew  her. 

The  Laird  rode  slowly,  thinking  of  the  woman  he  had 
left.  Away  in  the  far  distance  he  could  see  the  mist-crowned 
cap  of  Crom  Creagh,  in  whose  shadow  stood  the  home  she 
would  one  day  brighten  with  her  presence.  It  needed  some- 
thing to  brighten  it ;  it  was  a  house,  but  no  home,  and  never 
had  been.  If  Macdonald  was  morose  and  unloveable,  he  had 
had  no  early  training  or  sweeter  influences  to  foster  the 
better  part  of  his  nature.  Grim  Highland  pride,  fierce  High- 
hind  temper,  had  been  allowed  to  run  rampant  among  the 
Macdonalds  through  every  generation.  A  thought  of  Ellen 
came  to  him  as  he  caught  sight  of  Crom  Creagh,  and  moment- 
arily he  set  himself  straight  in  the  saddle,  and  tightened 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER.  21 

his  hand  on  the  rein.  The  mare,  sensitive  to  the  slightest 
touch,  set  off  at  a  brisk  canter,  and  in  fifteen  minutes  passed  by 
the  inn  at  Amulree.  The  mist  was  clearing  away,  and  a 
glorious  sunset  appearing  beyond  the  solemn  shadows  of  Glen- 
quaich.  A  red  light  touched  the  waters  of  the  loch  into  a 
sheet  of  living  fire,  and  golden  shafts  lay  athwart  the  surround- 
ing hills.  High  on  a  bit  of  tableland,  half  way  up  Crom 
Creagh,  stood  Dalmore,  sheltered  somewhat  by  a  pine  wood  on 
either  side,  but  standing  out  in  front  a  grey,  weather-beaten 
pile,  its  many  turreted  windows  reflecting  the  glory  of  the  sun- 
set sky.  It  was  a  bleak,  exposed  situation  for  a  dwelling,  more 
suggestive  of  a  shooting  lodge  than  the  mansion  pertaining  to  a 
great  estate,  but  it  was  in  keeping  with  the  characteristics  of 
the  grim  race  whose  heritage  it  was.  They  were  not  beloved 
in  Glenquaich  and  Strathbraan,  and  Graham  Macdonald  was  a 
hard  landlord,  exacting  his  dues  to  the  uttermost  farthing;  a 
just  man,  but  not  generous,  that  was  all  that  could  be  said  of 
him.  The  front  windows  of  Dalmore  commanded  a  fine  view  : 
the  little  hamlet  of  Amulree,  with  its  picturesque  church  and 
winding  streams  ;  the  beautiful  valley  of  Glenquaich,  with  Loch 
Fraochie  mirrored  like  a  gem  in  its  bosom ;  and  all  around, 
chain  upon  chain  of  heather-clad  hills  sat  in  majestic  and 
solemn  beauty.  They  knew  no  change,  whatever  strife  might 
fret  the  minds  of  men. 

The  carriage-way  to  the  mansion  of  Dalmore  branched  off 
the  public  road,  crossed  the  Girron  Burn  by  a  rather  unsteady- 
looking  wooden  bridge,  propped  up  by  divot  and  peat,  led 
through  the  marshy  low  ground  at  the  base  of  Crom  Creagh, 
and  finally  wound  up  the  steep  slope  of  the  hill  to  the  house. 
A  few  straggling  birches  and  firs  grew  on  either  side,  but  there 
was  no  attempt  at  ornamentation  or  effect.  It  was  a  bleak, 
bare,  unpromising  approach.  And  yet  the  place  had  its  own 
wild  beauty :  the  purple  glow  of  heather  bells,  the  mystery  of 
light  and  shadows  never  seen  save  on  Highland  hills,  and  a 
perfect  freedom  and  solitude,  which  seemed  to  bring  it  near  to 
heaven.  The  Macdonalds  loved  their  bleak  heritage  with  a 
deep-rooted,  if  undemonstrative  love,  and  they  would  not  have 
exchanged  it  for  any  lowland  castle  or  palace. 


t*  SHEILA. 

Graham  Macdonald  rode  slowly  up  the  carriage-way.  Once 
more  the  mare  was  allowed  to  take  her  own  sweet  will.  She 
even  stopped  to  take  a  mouthful  of  herbage  from  the  bank 
without  being  restrained  by  her  master's  impatient  hand.  The 
house  was  built  on  a  broad  tableland  directly  under  the  steep 
ascent  which  led  to  the  summit  of  the  mountain.  It  was  a 
commodious  building  of  solid  masonry,  with  long  narrow  win- 
dows, and  a  low  wide  doorway  opening  out  on  a  sweep  of 
gravel  taken  from  the  bed  of  the  mountain  streams.  The 
stables  and  other  offices  were  on  the  left,  and  to  the  right  the 
garden,  which,  considering  its  height  and  exposure,  seemed 
wonderfully  productive.  The  harvest  more  than  sufficed  for 
the  need  of  the  simple  household  at  Dalmore. 

The  Laird  dismounted  at  the  stable  door,  and  as  he  did  so, 
a  little  lad  dressed  in  the  Highland  garb,  and  becoming  it  well, 
came  bounding  with  his  hoop,  and  followed  by  a  collie  dog, 
from  the  front  of  the  house. 

*  May  I  get  on  Mora,  Uncle  Graham  ? '  he  asked,  in  his  clear, 
childish  tones.  'I  have  been  watching  for  you.  If  I  had 
seen  you,  I  would  have  come  to  meet  you  on  the  road.' 

'Too  late,  my  boy,'  said  the  Laird,  gently  for  him,  and  his 
eye  softened  as  it  dwelt  on  the  boy's  sweet,  open  face.  '  Never 
mind,  Fergus ;  to-morrow  you  shall  have  a  ride  on  Mora.  Is 
your  mother  in  the  house  ? ' 

'  Yes,  Uncle  Graham.  She  is  in  the  drawing-room,  I  think. 
I  saw  her  at  the  window  just  now  when  I  was  playing.  May  I 
go  with  Lachlan  Macrae  to  get  Mora  shod,  and  ride  her  home?' 

'  Yes,  yes ;  off  you  go.  See  that  Colin  doesn't  chase  the 
sheep.  He'll  need  to  be  shot,  Fergus,  if  he  doesn't  stop  these 
tricks  of  his.  I  have  had  two  complaints  from  the  Fauld 
about  him.' 

'He  is  a  bad  dog,  Uncle  Graham,  and  I  try  to  teach  him. 
I'll  whip  him  with  your  whip  if  he  looks  at  a  sheep  to-day,' 
said  Fergus  sorrowfully,  but  firmly,  as  his  uncle  turned  away. 

Dalmore  entered  the  house  by  the  kitchen  door,  and  then 
through  a  long  stone  passage  to  the  front  halL  Entering  the 
gun-room,  he  took  off  his  riding  boots,  and,  washing  his  hands, 
proceeded  as  he  was  up  to  the  drawing-room.  His  sister  was 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER.  23 

there   alone,  and   he    had   occasion   for   a   private  word  with 
her. 

The  interior  of  Dalmore  was  much  more  imposing  and  com- 
fortable than  its  outward  aspect  promised.  The  hall  itself  was 
not  the  least  handsome  and  striking  feature  of  the  house.  It 
was  panelled  in  oak  from  basement  to  ceiling,  and  the  latter 
was  a  specimen  of  the  fine  carved  work  of  a  past  age.  It  had 
a  fire-place  which,  in  these  days  of  crazes  for  the  antique, 
would  be  accounted  of  priceless  value.  Deer  and  sheep  skins 
lay  here  and  there  on  the  polished  floor,  and  the  walls  were 
adorned  with  magnificent  deer's  horns,  stag's  head,  and  other 
trophies  of  the  chase.  A  broad,  shallow  flight  of  steps  led 
up  to  a  porticoed  doorway,  which  opened  upon  the  staircase, 
also  of  rich  dark  polished  oak,  and  uncarpeted.  The  effect,  if 
somewhat  gloomy  and  bare,  had  an  attraction  of  its  own.  The 
drawing-room  was  on  the  first  floor — a  -curious  octagon-shaped 
room,  built,  indeed,  in  the  tower  of  Dalmore.  It  was  plainly 
furnished,  and  there  was  no  attempt  at  decoration,  and  certainly 
none  of  those  lighter  touches  of  beauty,  which  flowers  and 
dainty  bits  of  colour  can  give  to  a  gloomy  room.  It  was 
'occupied  by  a  lady  attired  in  a  black  gown  of  a  hard  material, 
and  a  huge  black  cap  utterly  out  of  keeping  with  the  still 
youthful  appearance  it  disfigured.  Her  long,  white,  character- 
istic hands  were  busy  kitting  a  tartan  sock  for  her  boy ;  and 
though  she  slightly  turned  her  head  at  the  opening  of  the  door, 
she  had  no  smile  of  greeting  for  her  brother.  A  smile  was, 
indeed,  seldom  seen  on  the  face  of  Ellen  Macleod.  She  was  a 
handsome,  striking-looking  woman,  with  a  grace  and  dignity  of 
bearing  which  proclaimed  her  descent ;  but  there  was  nothing 
winning  or  womanly  about  her.  One  might  almost  wonder 
how  she  had  been  persuaded  to  become  a  wife.  She  was  a 
woman  who  looked  always  on  the  gloomy  side  of  life.  Young 
creatures  shrank  from  her ;  sometimes,  God  help  him  1  her  boy's 
warm  heart  was  chilled  by  her  coldness.  She  regarded  any 
demonstration  of  affection  as  a  pitiable  weakness.  She  looked 
after  the  moral  and  physical  well-being  of  her  child  in  an 
exemplary  manner,  but  withheld  from  him  that  motherly  tender- 
ness which  is  the  children's  heritage.  A  woman  this  with  few 


24  SHEILA. 

womanly  attributes  or  impulses,  and  whose  pride  knew  no 
limit.  Of  these  two  grim  beings  who  faced  each  other  in  that 
room,  the  man  was  the  preferable  of  the  two. 

1  You  have  been  riding  ? '  she  said  briefly,  and  without  lifting 
her  eyes  from  her  work.  She  was  indeed  surprised  to  see  her 
brother  in  the  drawing-room.  When  he  was  indoors,  his 
hours  were  chiefly  spent  in  the  gun-room  or  in  the  library, 
which  was  filled  with  books  he  never  read. 

'  Yes ;  I  have  been  to  Birnam  and  back  since  luncheon,'  he 
answered ;  and,  approaching  the  window  where  she  sat,  he 
stood  directly  opposite  to  her.  She  slightly  elevated  her  eye- 
brows, but  continued  her  work. 

1  Will  you  give  me  your  attention  for  a  few  minutes,  Ellen, 
if  you  please  ? ' 

*  Certainly,  Macdonald,'  she  answered,  and,  folding  up  her 
work  methodically,  laid  it  on  the  small  inlaid  table  at  her  side, 
and  lifted  her  calm  eyes  to  his  face.    They  were  beautiful  eyes — 
large,  dark,  and  piercing — but  they  lacked  that  luminous  light 
which  a  tender  woman's  heart  can  give  to  less  expressive  orbs. 

Graham  Macdonald  was  no  coward,  but  he  felt  a  trifle 
disconcerted  under  that  calm,  steady  gaze.  He  knew  perfectly 
well  that  she  had  not  the  remotest  idea  of  the  nature  of  the 
communication  he  was  about  to  make,  and  it  was  impossible  to 
expect  that  it  would  not  give  her  a  shock  of  an  unpleasant  kind. 

*  I  have  something  very  particular  to   talk  to   you   about, 
Ellen,'   he   began.       '  It   concerns   myself  directly,   and  more 
indirectly  you  and  your  boy.' 

« Indeed  I ' 

Ellen  Macleod  started  slightly.  She  had  felt  herself  very 
secure  in  Dalmore,  and,  in  point  of  fact,  regarded  herself  as 
the  mother  of  its  future  laird. 

4 1  trust,  Macdonald,  that  you  have  no  fault  to  find  with  me 
or  with  Fergus  ?  '  she  said  quietly.  '  I  have  endeavoured  to  do 
my  duty  in  the  house,  and  the  child  is  as  good  as  one  of  his 
years  can  be  expected.' 

'  It  is  nothing  of  that  kind,  Ellen.  How  can  I  have  any 
fault  to  find  with  you?  And  I  love  the  boy,  as  you  know,' 
said  Macdonald  hastily.  'I  only  ask  you  to  look  back  for  a 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER.  25 

little.  You  will  remember,  when  Macleod  died,  you  came  here 
of  your  own  free  will,  without  asking,  and  there  was  no  promise 
given  on  either  side.' 

'What  are  you  talking  about,  Macdonald?'  asked  Ellen 
Macleod,  betrayed  into  more  hastiness  of  speech  than  usual. 
'  What  do  you  mean  ? ' 

'What  I  say.  I  am  only  reminding  you,  that  when  you 
came  back  to  Dalmore  three  years  ago,  there  was  no  promise 
given  that  it  should  be  to  you  or  the  boy  a  permanent  home.' 

'  Then  you  wish  me  to  leave  my  father's  house  ? '  said  Ellen 
Macleod,  with  quivering  lip.  'Fergus  and  I  have  been  too 
long  a  burden  on  you,  perhaps;  but  we  were  unconscious 
offenders.' 

'  Don't  be  a  fool,  Ellen,'  said  Macdonald  hastily.  *  It  is  im- 
possible you  can  misunderstand  me.  You  have  been  no  burden 
on  me,  nor  have  you  given  offence  in  any  way,  but  I  am  going 
to  marry,  and  it  is  impossible  there  can  be  two  mistresses  in 
Dalmore.' 

*  Marry  I  *  The  word  fell  short,  sharp — almost  like  a  gasp — 
from  Ellen  Macleod's  lips.  In  all  her  planning  and  dreaming, 
such  a  contingency  as  this  had  never  presented  itself  to  her 
mind.  It  was  a  moment  before  she  recovered  herself,  for  she 
had  received  a  shock  of  no  ordinary  kind. 

'  Excuse  me,  Macdonald,  if  I  am  lax  in  offering  my  congratu- 
lations,' she  said  at  length,  with  a  slight,  chill  smile.  'The 
magnitude  of  my  surprise  is  my  excuse.  Pray,  who  is  the  lady 
to  whom  you  have  offered  your  hand  and  heart  ? ' 

Graham  Macdonald  did  not  like  her  tone,  and  his  colour  rose. 
There  was  not  much  love  between  the  two,  but  the  blame  was 
wholly  hers.  She  had  done  nothing  all  her  life  to  conciliate  or 
win  her  brother's  heart.  Nay,  she  had  taught  him  a  mistrust 
and  dislike  of  women  which  had  soured  him  in  his  young  man- 
hood, and  made  him  a  morose  and  melancholy  man. 

'Spare  me  your  sneers,  Ellen,  though  they  are  not  un- 
expected,' he  said  quickly.  'I  do  not  admit  your  right  to 
question  me  about  my  affairs.  The  fact  that  I  am  to  marry 
might  be  sufficient.  The  lady  who  has  done  me  the  unspeakable 
honour  to  accept  me  in  all  my  unwbrthiness  is  Edith  Murray, 

3 


26  SHEILA. 

whom  you  may  perhaps  remember  as  governess  at  Mnrrays- 
haugh.' 

Ellen  Macleod  started  as  if  she  had  been  stung.  Hot,  bitter 
words  rushed  to  her  lips,  but  she  restrained  them,  and  even 
kept  that  cold  smile  steadily  in  her  face. 

'Lady  Ailsa's  English  governess  has  indeed  feathered  her 
nest  in  Scotland/  she  said  slowly.  'Not  content  with  her 
position  as  widow  of  a  Murray  of  Murrayshaugh,  she  has  played 
and  won  Dalmore.  She  must  be  a  clever  woman,  in  spite  of 
her  baby  face  and  innocent  ways.' 

Ellen  Macleod  was  very  angry.  Her  passion  was  at  fever 
heat,  or  she  would  not  so  far  have  forgotten  herself.  As  her 
anger  rose,  however,  her  brother's  cooled,  and  he  looked  at  her 
with  a  touch  of  compassion. 

'My  news  has  angered  you,  Ellen,  and  I  forgive  what  you 
say  about  my  future  wife ;  only,  I  beg  of  you,  whatever  you 
may  think,  in  future  to  spare  me  the  expression  of  your 
opinion.  I  suppose  I  have  come  to  years  of  discretion,  and 
may  be  permitted  to  please  myself  in  this  matter.  I  have  told 
you  in  good  time,  for  only  this  day  did  I  receive  my  answer. 
You  cannot  accuse  me  of  keeping  you  long  in  the  dark  /tgard- 
ing  my  plans.' 

'  I  thank  you  for  that  courtesy,  Macdonald,'  saiu  Ellen 
Macleod  briefly.  'Unless  the  marriage  is  to  taxe  place 
immediately,  I  shall  have  time  to  make  my  plans.  As  you  say, 
there  cannot  be  two  mistresses  in  Dalmore.' 

'  There  need  be  no  haste,  Ellen,'  said  Macdonwid.  '  Do  nol 
think  I  shall  lose  all  interest  in  you  and  the  boy.  You  will,  al 
least,  remain  until  the  new  mistress  comes  home  t ' 

'  I  think  not,  Macdonald ;  it  would  scarcely  be  pleasant  for 
her  or  for  me,'  was  the  cold  response. 

'The  marriage  will  not  take  place  immediately,'  said  Mac- 
donald, after  a  pause.  '  I  hope,  before  the  time,  that  you  and 
she  may  have  better  acquaintance  of  each  other.  You  will 
accompany  me  at  an  early  day,  Ellen,  to  Birnam,  will  you 
not?' 

Ellen  Macleod's  colour  rose,  and  her  eyes  flashed  ominously. 

'  Although  I  have  enjoyed  the  shelter  of  your  roof  since  my 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER.  27 

husband's  death,  Macdonald,  I  am  not  bound  to  humour  your 
whims,  or  humiliate  myself  to  please  you,'  she  said,  with  bitter 
scorn.  *  This  woman  you  have  chosen  is  not  a  fit  wife  for  you, 
and  /  must  decline  to  countenance  the  affair,  or  to  receive 
her.9 

So  saying,  she  gathered  her  heavy  skirts  in  her  hand,  and 
swept  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  HI. 

LADY  AILSA'S  OPINION. 

'Oh,  srreet  is  sympathy;  and  woman's  Heart 
Should  be  its  fittest  home.' 

HAVE  just  come  over,  Edith,  my  dear,  to  have  a 
long  chat  with  you  about  everything,'  said  Lady 
Ailsa  Murray  to  her  sister-in-law.  '  Douglas  is  at 
Perth  to-day,  and  I  shall  wait  with  you  until  his 

train  is  due.     How  are  you?     Sheila  is  not  with  me,  my  love, 

because  I  knew  that  if  I  brought  her,  you  would  have  eyes  and 

ears  for  nobody  else.' 

'I  have  missed  her  very  much,  Ailsa,'  said   Mrs.   Alastair. 

*You,  with  your  merry  band,  cannot  understand  the  feelings  of 

a  mother  who  has  only  one  ewe-lamb.' 

*  Oh,  but  I  do !     If  you  saw  Sheila,  Edith,  among  those  six 
wild  boys  1     She  is  like  a  little  angeL     In  spite  of  my  merry 
band,  I  envy  you  your  one  eve-lamb,  because  she  is  a  girlie. 
What   if  we   keep   her?     You   will  not   need  her   badly   at 
Dalmore?' 

*  Perhaps  more  than  here,  Ailsa,'  said  Mrs.  Alastair,  with  a 
sigh. 

4  Why  that  long  face,  child  ?     You  are  not  regretting  having 
given  your  promise  to  Dalmore?' 

*  O  no  I '     The   delicate   colour   rose   swiftly  to  the  young 


LADY  AILS  A' S  OPINION.  29 

widow's  pale  face.  'If  you  only  knew,  if  I  could  only  tell  you, 
how  kind  and  good  he  is,  Ailsa.  I  feel  that  I  can  never  repay 
him  for  it  all.' 

'  I  should  not  have  thought  Dalmore  would  make  such  .  a 
lover,  Edith,'  said  Lady  Ailsa,  with  a  laugh.  *  I  have  always 
been  rather  afraid  of  him.' 

'You  do  not  know  him,'  said  Mrs.  Alastair,  and  turned  her 
head  a  little  away. 

'  I  suppose  Ellen  Macleod  has  never  come  ? ' 

'  No  ;  she  will  not  receive  me,  Ailsa.' 

'Abominable  of  her!  but  nobody  could  expect  anything  else 
from  her.  It  passes  my  comprehension  how  any  man  ever  had 
the  courage  to  make  her  his  wife.  I  daresay  she  wore  poor 
Edgar  Macleod  out,'  said  Lady  Ailsa  calmly.  '  She  will  leave 
Dalmore,  I  suppose  ?  * 

'O  yes.  There  is  a  little  lodge  at  Amulree — Shonnen,  I 
think,  is  the  name — which  has  been  a  kind  of  home  for  the 
ladies  of  the  family.  It  belongs  to  her,  so  she  and  her  boy  are 
to  take  up  their  abode  in  it.' 

'  Amulree  I '  exclaimed  Lady  Ailsa,  shaking  her  head.  '  Too 
near,  my  dear,  far  too  near.  I  should  like  the  breadth  of  the 
sea  between  you  and  Ellen  Macleod.' 

'  You  must  not  be  too  hard  on  her,  Ailsa.  Her  hopes  are  all 
quenched.  This  must  have  been  a  blow  to  her ;  and  yet,  and 
yet,  if  she  were  a  true  sister,  she  would  not  grudge  her  brother 
his  happiness.' 

'It  is  for  the  boy,  I  suppose,'  said  Lady  Ailsa  musingly. 
'There  is  not  much  chance  now  of  his  inheriting  Dalmore  and 
Findowie.  He  is  a  fine  little  fellow.  Have  you  ever  seen  him  ? ' 

'  No ;  but  Macdonald  speaks  a  great  deal  of  him.  He  has  a 
warm  place  in  his  uncle's  heart.' 

'60  Ellen  Macleod  has  put  up  her  Highland  temper  and  her 
Highland  pride,'  said  Lady  Ailsa.  'Never  mind  her,  my  dear; 
the  only  thing  you  can  do  is  to  ignore  her.' 

•I  wrote  to  her,  Ailsa,  but  she  returned  me  my  letter  un- 
opened,' said  Mrs.  Alastair,  with  flushing  face. 

'Insulting  woman!  and  in  spite  of  all  that,  she  deigns  to 
remain  at  Dalmore !' 


30  SHEILA. 

'  I  did  not  tell  Macdonald  of  it,  Ailsa,  as  I  am  afraid — he  ia 
so  sensitive  where  I  am  concerned — that  he  would  have  sent 
her  away.' 

'  Well,  well,  don't  let  us  speak  about  her  any  more.  When 
is  the  marriage  likely  to  take  place  ? ' 

'The  date  is  fixed,'  returned  Mrs.  Alastair  shyly;  'the 
twenty-first  of  September.' 

'  And  this  is  the  ninth  of  August,  child.  There  is  no  time 
to  prepare.  Of  course  you  know  the  wedding  will  take  place 
at  Murrayshaugh  ? ' 

'  We  talked  of  being  married  in  Edinburgh,  Ailsa.  This  is 
such  a  prying,  gossiping  place.' 

'  Let  them  pry  and  gossip,'  laughed  Lady  Ailsa.  '  It  can  be 
as  quiet  as  you  like,  but  it  shall  be  at  Murrayshaugh  and 
nowhere  else.  You  can  tell  Macdonald  that,  with  my  kind 
compliments.  Since  you  are  going  to  cast  off  the  Murrays,  it 
must  be  done  gracefully;  and  Ellen  Macleod  shall  see  that 
she  stands  alone  in  her  senseless  disapproval  of  the  wisest  step 
her  brother  ever  took  in  his  life.' 

'  Cast  off  the  Murrays ! '  repeated  Mrs.  Alastair,  and  her  tears 
rose.  '  If  I  ever  forget  what  you  have  been  to  me,  Ailsa,  since 
the  first  day  I  entered  Murrayshaugh,  a  nameless  dependent, 
may  I  suffer  for  it  I ' 

'  Hush,  my  darling !  we  have  made  you  suffer  too.  My  heart 
has  been  sore  against  my  husband  often  on  your  account. 
Many  times  has  he  made  the  wound  I  could  never  heal.  It  is 
an  unspeakable  source  of  gratitude  to  me  that  at  last  you  will 
be  able  to  hold  your  own  against  us  with  all  our  pride.  This 
marriage  is  a  perfect  joy  to  me,  Edith,  and  all  the  Ellen 
Macleods  in  the  world  won't  damp  it.' 

Both  were  agitated,  and  there  were  traces  of  it  in  their  looks 
and  manner,  when  the  servant  announced  Mr.  Macdonald. 

Lady  Ailsa  sprang  up,  brushed  away  her  tears,  and  was 
ready  to  meet  the  Laird  with  a  smile.  As  he  entered  the 
room  she  could  not  but  be  struck  by  his  noble  bearing,  and 
note  the  exquisite  softening  which  a  woman's  sweet  influence 
had  given  to  his  hard  face.  She  saw  the  light  in  his  eyes  as 
they  dwelt  on  Edith's  face,  and  her  heart  was  content,  for  she 


LADY  AILS  A' S  OPINION.  31 

knew  that  it  was  the  love  of  a  life  her  gentle  sister- in-law  hail 
won — a  love  which  would  shield  and  cherish  her  from  the 
blasts  of  life.  Love  had  indeed  wrought  a  marvellous  change 
in  Macdonalr1  af  Duhnore. 

'What  little  bird  whispered  to  you  that  Edith  and  I  were 
talking  about  you?'  laughed  Lady  Ailsa  in  her  happy  way. 
'  I  do  not  suppose  that  you  will  care  for  anything  so  conven- 
tional as  congratulations.  Nevertheless,  I  do  congratulate  you, 
and  I  have  known  Edith  much  longer  than  you.  You  have 
won  a  prize,  sir,  which  I  fear  we  Hurrays  have  not  sufficiently 
appreciated.' 

She  spoke  lightly,  but  with  an  undercurrent  of  earnestness 
which  Graham  Macdonald  deeply  felt. 

*  I  thank  you,  Lady  Ailsa.  I  pray  I  may  be  worthy  of  it,' 
he  said,  with  a  courtesy  and  grace  which  became  him  well. 

'I  have  no  fear  for  your  happiness.  Good-bye,  Edith, 
darling.  She  will  tell  you  what  we  have  been  talking  about. 
No,  I  will  not  stay ; '  and  almost  before  they  could  detain  her, 
the  warm-hearted  lady  of  Murray  si  laugh  had  flitted  out  of  the 
room. 

'Is  Farquhar  in  your  kitchen,  Anne?'  she  asked  Mrs. 
Alastair's  maid,  as  she  met  her  in  the  stair. 

'  No,  my  lady ;  he  has  gone  over  to  the  hotel  to  put  up  the 
horses.' 

'  Ah,  just  run  over  and  tell  him  to  bring  back  the  carriage, 
as  I  am  going  farther  or  I  shall  wait  in  the  dining-room  till 
he  comes,'  said  Lady  Ailsa,  who  had  conceived  a  sudden  plan. 
She  was  impulsive  by  nature,  but  the  promptings  of  her  heart 
were  always  in  the  right  direction. 

'  Have  we  time,  Farquhar,  to  drive  to  Dalmore  and  be  back 
in  time  for  Sir  Douglas's  train?' 

'  Dalmore,  my  lady  ? '  asked  the  servant  in  surprise. 

'  Dalmore,  above  Amulree — you  know  it  ? ' 

'  O  yes,  my  lady,  I  know  it ;  it  is  ten  miles  from  here. 
No,  there  is  not  time ;  it  will  take  us  three  hours  at  least.' 

'Ah,  then,  Lachlan  can  walk  back  to  Murrayshaugh,  and 
bring  a  dogcart  for  Sir  Douglas ;  Anne  will  tell  him.  Drive 
me  up  to  Dalmore.' 


32  SHEILA. 

There  was  nothing  for  Farquhar  but  to  obey,  though  he  felt 
himself  aggrieved  by  this  sudden  and  unexpected  order.  It 
was  a  long,  toilsome  road  to  Dalmore,  and  a  cold,  wet  drizzle 
was  beginning  to  blow  in  the  easterly  wind.  Mr.  Farquhar's 
imperturbable  countenance  wore  a  shade  of  anxious  gloom  as 
he  turned  his  horses'  heads  up  the  hilly  ascent. 

Lady  Ailsa  contemplated  an  errand  of  mercy.  She  wished 
to  reason  with,  and,  if  possible,  to  conciliate  Ellen  Macleod, 
whom  she  had  known  since  her  girlhood,  though  she  had  not 
seen  much  of  her  for  some  years.  But  she  knew  the  nature  of 
Mrs.  Alastair,  and  that  the  thought  that  Ellen  Macleod  regarded 
her  with  aversion  and  anger  would  eat  the  happiness  out  of 
her  heart. 

Farquhar  was  in  no  very  good  mood  when  he  got  his  horses 
up  the  steep  carriage-way  to  Dalmore.  He  was  an  old  and 
privileged  servant,  and  sometimes  spoke  his  mind  with  curious 
candour. 

'Just  look  at  the  poor  brutes,  my  lady,'  he  said,  pointing  to 
their  foam-flaked  flanks.  'That  road's  enough  to  kill  them. 
How  folks  can  live  in  a  wilderness  like  this,  and  expect 
other  people's  horseflesh  to  pull  up  their  mountains,  /  don't 
know.' 

'  You  make  idols  of  the  horses,  Farquhar,'  said  Lady  Ailsa 
good-naturedly.  '  Take  them  into  the  stables  and  feed 
them  well.  I  shall  stay  tea  with  Mrs.  Macleod  while  I  am 
here.' 

Ellen  Macleod  had  seen  the  carriage  mounting  the  hill,  and 
recognised  the  grey  horses,  but  scarcely  expected  to  see  Lady 
Ailsa  alone.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  that  'that  woman,' 
as  she  termed  Mrs.  Alastair,  had  come  to  assert  her  right  to  be 
received  at  Dalmore.  Dear  me !  how  uncharitable  one  woman 
can  be  to  another  when  jealousy  and  anger  are  allowed  to  gain 
the  mastery.  Lady  Ailsa  perfectly  divined  her  thoughts,  and 
smiled  as  she  shook  hands  with  her. 

'No,  I  have  not  brought  poor  Mrs.  Alastair  to  take  you 
by  storm,  Ellen,'  she  said,  with  that  sweet  daring  which  character- 
ized her  at  times.  '  I  am  not  such  an  arch-plotter.  Will  you 
give  me  a  cup  of  tea,  and  let  me  rest  a  little  with  you  while 


LAD  Y  AILS  A 'S  OPINION.  3  3 

Farquhar  attends  to  his  precious  horses?  He  is  much  more  con- 
cerned about  their  well-being  than  his  mistress's  convenience.' 

It  was  impossible  not  to  feel  the  charm  of  that  bright 
presence,  and  Ellen  Macleod's  grim  face  relaxed. 

*I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Lady  Ailsa.  Few  women -folk 
visit  me  here,'  she  said  graciously,  as  she  laid  her  hand  on  the 
bell-rope. 

*  Your  own  fault,  Ellen  Macleod.  People  won't  visit  without 
invitations,'  said  Lady  Ailsa  candidly.  '  Why  do  you  mew 
yourself  up  in  this  dull  place ;  and  oh,  why  do  you  wear  that 
hideous  thing  on  your  head?  It  quite  disfigures  you.  Have 
you  ever  noticed  what  a  dainty  thing  Mrs.  Alastair  wears' — 

Lady  Ailsa  stopped  abruptly.  She  had  made  a  mistake,  as 
was  evidenced  by  the  slow,  bitter  smile  which  curled  Ellen 
Macleod's  lip. 

1 1  have  not  a  like  desire  with  Mrs.  Alastair  to  make  myself 
attractive  in  the  eyes  of  men,'  she  said  quietly. 

4  What  horrid  things  you  say,  Ellen  Macleod !  I  declare  you 
are  not  one  bit  better  than  you  used  to  be  as  a  girl.  Was 
there  no  grace  in  the  manse  of  Meiklemore  ? ' 

Ellen  Macleod  held  her  tongue,  and  stirred  up  the  newly- 
lighted  fire  to  a  brighter  blaze. 

'  Do  sit  down,  Ellen,  and  let  us  talk,'  said  Lady  Ailsa,  feeling 
that  she  was  making  very  little  headway.  '  I  am  an  old  friend ; 
you  can  trust  me,  and  I  will  be  true.  I  have  come  to-day  to 
plead  Mrs.  Alastair's  cause.' 

Ellen  Macleod  sat  down ;  a  red  spot  burned  on  her  cheek, 
and  her  lips  compressed  themselves  together. 

'I  would  rather  not  speak  of  Mrs.  Alastair,  Ailsa,  if  you 
please.' 

'  But,  Ellen,  you  must  speak  of  her.  If  you  go  on  brooding 
over  this  thing  it  will  eat  your  heart  out.  Let  us  turn  it  inside 
out,  and  see  the  good  as  well  as  the  ill  in  it.  Confess, 
now,  that  it  has  made  a  wonderful  improvement  in  your 
brother.' 

'  I  have  not  noticed  it.  He  has  been  little  at  home  since  this 
transpired.  There  are  no  fools  like  old  ones,  Lady  Ailsa,  and  a 
middle-aged  lover  is  generally  a  sorry  spectacle.  I  am  sorry 
3 


34  SHEILA. 

to  see  Macdonald  making  himself  a  laughing-stock,'  was  the 
sour  reply. 

'  How  hard  you  are  upon  him,'  said  Lady  Ailsa  gently. 
4  Love  makes  us  all  a  little  foolish.  I  saw  Macdonald  to-day  at 
Mrs.  Alastair's,  and  I  never  admired  him  before,  Ellen.  In 
fact,  I  have  been  rather  sorry  for  Edith ;  you  Macdonalds  are 
rather  a  fearsome  race,  you  know.' 

'  Not  fearsome  enough  to  frighten  Aer,'  said  Ellen  Macleod, 
with  grim  irony ;  which  Lady  Ailsa  passed  over,  so  eager  was 
she  to  make  peace  in  Dalmore. 

She  leaned  forward  in  her  chair,  with  her  fair  white  hands 
clasped  on  her  knees,  and  fixed  her  soft  blue  eyes  earnestly  on 
the  dark,  forbidding  face  opposite. 

'  Ellen,  all  you  can  do  now  will  not  put  Macdonald  past  his 
purpose.  Would  it  not  be  better  to  accept  the  inevitable 
gracefully,  and  do  what  you  can  to  further  his  happiness  ?  I 
am  certain  this  marriage  will  be  for  his  happiness.  Edith  is 
a  dear  woman.  I  am  sure  you  will  learn  to  love  her.  Don't 
be  the  only  shadow  on  the  happiness  of  Dalmore.' 

Ellen  Macleod  never  spoke,  nor  did  her  countenance  relax  in 
the  least.  She  fancied  herself  deeply  injured,  and  her  anger 
burned  causelessly  against  the  inoffensive  woman  who  had 
supplanted  her.  She  was  a  proud,  hard,  jealous-minded  woman, 
and  Lady  Ailsa's  gentle  pleading  fell  with  very  little  effect  on 
her  ears. 

'Macdonald  is  his  own  enemy,  Lady  Ailsa.  He  has  not 
calculated  what  expense  and  extravagance  this  step  will  lead 
him  into.  He  will  find  a  wife  and  family  a  very  different 
matter  to  provide  for  from  what  it  is  at  present.  I  have  saved 
money  for  him,  and  Heaven  knows — what  with  grumbling,  ill- 
conditioned  tenants,  who  shirk  their  rent  paying,  and  these 
hard  times — there  is  need  for  retrenchment  somewhere.  The 
revenues  of  Dalmore  and  Findowie  combined  would  not  suffice 
to  keep  up  an  extravagant  establishment.' 

'  Mrs.  Alastair  will  be  more  likely  to  diminish  than  increase 
the  household  expenditure.  Her  way  of  life  since  her  marriage 
— indeed,  all  her  life — has  taught  her  strict  economy,'  said  Lady 
Ailsa,  with  a  slight  sigh,  for  her  heart  was  heavier  than  it  had 


LAD  Y  AILS  A 'S  OPINION.  35 

been  when,  she  started  on  her  mission.  '  I  assure  yon,  you 
axe  imagining  troubles  and  ills  which  will  never  come.  Do  be 
persuaded  to  make  the  best  of  this,  Ellen.  Go  down  some  day 
and  see  Mrs.  Alastair.  Were  I  you,  my  pride  would  make 
me  do  it.' 

Ellen  Macleod's  face  grew  yet  more  grim  with  the  sternness 
of  a  settled  purpose. 

'  I  have  passed  my  word.  I  do  not  approve  of  this  foolish 
marriage ;  and  I  cannot  think  her  a  woman  of  principle  or 
feeling.  I  will  not  humble  myself  to  her.  If  she  becomes 
Lady  of  Dalmore  she  can  afford  to  despise  me,  and  will  probably; 
so  yon  must  leave  us  alone,  Lady  Ailsa.' 

At  that  moment  the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  little  Fergus, 
his  fair  face  flushed  with  out-door  exercise,  and  his  tangled 
yellow  hair  tossing  on  his  open  brow,  came  bounding  into  the 
room,  with  a  wet  and  muddy  collie  at  his  heels. 

'  Oh,  mamma,  there  is  a  carriage  in  the  yard  1 '  he  cried, 
but  stopped  short  at  the  sight  of  the  strange  lady  at  the  hearth. 

Lady  Ailsa's  motherly  heart  warmed  to  the  bright-faced  lad, 
and  she  stretched  out  her  hands  to  him  with  a  smile.  But  the 
lad  drew  back  with  a  shyness  quite  unusual  with  him,  and  kept 
close  by  his  mother's  side.  Lady  Ailsa  saw  the  mother's  bosom 
heave  as  her  full  eye  fell  on  the  childish  figure  at  her  side. 

'  Mamma,'  said  Fergus,  in  a  whisper  perfectly  audible  through 
the  whole  room,  'is  that  the  lady  who  is  to  put  us  out  of 
Dalmore?' 

Ellen  Macleod's  colour  rose. 

'That  is  Lady  Ailsa  Murray,  Fergus.  Make  your  bow  to 
her,  and  then  take  Colin  downstairs.  Don't  you  see  he  is  fitter 
for  the  stable  than  the  drawing-room  ?  How  often  have  I  told 
yon  not  to  bring  the  dogs  into  the  house?' 

'  Uncle  Graham  said  I  might  have  Colin  in,  mamma,'  said  the 
boy ;  and,  with  a  graceful  salutation  to  Lady  Ailsa,  he  left  the 
room. 

'  I  must  apologise  for  Fergus's  hasty  speech,  Ailsa,'  said  Ellen 
Macleod,  as  she  rose  to  pour  out  the  tea.  '  He  is  only  a  child, 
and  has  not  yet  learned  the  wisdom  of  the  world.' 

'It  is  hardly  fair  to  poison  his  mind,  Ellen/  said  Lady  Ailsa, 


36  SHEILA. 

in  gentle  rebuke.     '  You  might  have  given  Edith  a  chance,  at 
least,  to  win  his  unprejudiced  love.' 

'  You  don't  understand,'  said  Ellen  Macleod  fiercely,  for  her 
passion  rose,  and  her  eye  grew  dark  with  the  swelling  tumult 
within.  '  That  is  where  it  stings.  I  have  watched  the  boy 
with  all  a  mother's  pride,  and  loved  him  for  his  manliness  and 
noble  bearing.  I  thought  he  was  giving  fair  promise  of  fitness 
for  the  position  I  thought  would  be  surely  his.  And  now  I 
must  crush  every  manly  attribute,  and  make  him  fit  to  serve 
others ;  for,  God  help  him  1  he  has  now  no  heritage.  By  the 
labour  of  his  hands  and  the  sweat  of  hu  brow,  Fergus  Macleod 
must  earn  his  bread.' 


CHAPTER   IV. 

WELCOME    HOME. 

O  child,  thy  life  should  be 
Ev'n  as  thy  open  brow, 
Careless  and  lovely. 

HOWITT, 

I  HE  chill  October  rain  beat  upon  the  window  panes, 
against  which  a  small  cliild  face  was  pressed, 
peering  out  wistfully  into  the  gathering  night.  It 
was  little  Sheila  Murray,  all  alone  in  the  drawing- 
room,  watching  for  her  mother's  home-coming  to  Dalmore. 
She  had  been  parted  from  her  for  three  weeks,  and  though  the 
time  had  been  spent  happily  enough  among  her  cousins  at 
Murrayshaugh,  and  though  gentle  Aunt  Ailsa  had  acted  a 
mother's  part  towards  her,  what  that  parting  had  been  to  the 
child  was  only  known  to  herself.  She  was  a  strange,  quiet, 
clinging  little  mortal,  thoughtful  beyond  her  years,  not  given 
much  to  the  boisterous  play  of  other  children,  though  she  was 
a  perfect  child  in  all  her  ways.  There  was  something  touch- 
ing and  pathetic  in  her  attitude  and  expression  as  she  sat 
curled  up  on  the  window-seat,  looking  out  on  the  dreary  land- 
scape, though  she  could  not  see  the  road  for  the  blinding  mist 
of  rain.  She  wore  a  white  dress ;  and  Aunt  Ailsa,  out  of 
compliment  to  the  Laird  of  Dalmore,  had  bidden  Anne,  who 
was  retained  as  nurse  at  Dalmore,  tie  a  sash  of  the  Macdonald 


38  SHEILA. 

tartan  about  her  waist.  The  child,  quick  to  notice  the  nev 
ribbon,  had  asked  its  meaning,  and  Anne  had  answered  back 
that  it  was  her  new  papa's  colours,  which  she  must  always 
wear  now. 

'  Her  new  papa's  colours  1 '  The  child  had  pondered  these 
words  in  her  small  mind  for  hours,  without  being  able  to 
understand  their  meaning. 

Poor  little  Sheila!  Dalmore,  that  magic  word  which  had 
been  so  often  on  her  lips  of  late,  had  grievously  disappointed  her 
when  she  alighted  from  the  carriage  at  its  entrance  that  dreary 
afternoon.  It  had  chilled  her  young  heart ;  and  when  she  was 
dressed  and  sent  into  the  big,  gloomy  drawing-room  to  await 
ner  mother  and  her  '  new  papa's '  home-coming,  a  great  sense 
af  desolation  had  come  upon  her,  and,  curling  herself  up  in  the 
deerskin  by  the  fire,  she  cried  herself  to  sleep.  When  she 
awoke,  the  shadows  were  gathering  in  the  long  room,  the  wood 
fire  was  smouldering  on  the  hearth,  and  Anne,  gossiping  with 
her  new  master's  domestics,  had  forgotten  all  about  her  little 
charge.  The  house  was  very  silent.  Not  a  sound  was  to 
be  heard  but  the  soughing  wind  among  the  pines,  and  the 
monotonous  plashing  of  the  rain  upon  the  panes.  The  carriage 
was  very  late,  but,  before  it  arrived,  an  uninvited  guest  came  up 
the  brae  to  the  house,  and,  with  all  the  freedom  of  familiarity, 
marched  up  to  the  drawing-room,  muddy  boots  and  all.  At 
the  opening  of  the  door,  Sheila  slipped  from  her  high  perch  on 
the  window-seat,  and  came  expectantly  across  the  floor.  But 
instead  of  her  mother  it  was  only  a  small  boy  who  entered, 
attired  in  a  damp  kilt,  and  with  the  feathers  in  his  bonnet 
dripping  in  his  hand.  He  shut  the  door,  and  advanced  into  the 
room  with  a  peculiar  expression  on  his  face.  The  two  children 
stood  on  the  hearth-rug,  surveying  each  other  with  delightful 
deliberation  for  a  few  minutes.  Then  Sheila  spoke,  with  a 
curious  mixture  of  shyness  and  dignity — 

'  Who  are  you,  little  boy  ?  ' 

'  Fergus  Macleod,1  was  the  prompt  reply.  '  Who  are 
you?' 

4  Sheila  Murray.  My  mamma  and  me  have  come  to  live 
here  now  with  Mr.  Macdonald,'  said  Sheila  proudly,  and 


WELCOME  HOME.  39 

beginning  to  smooth  the  ribbon  of  her  sash  with  her  dainty 
little  hand.  '  Do  you  know  Mr.  Macdonald,  little  boy — my 
papa  ? ' 

'  He  is  my  Uncle  Graham,'  said  Fergus,  drawing  himself  up. 
<-My  mother  and  I  lived  here  before  you  came.' 

*  And  where  do  you  live  now  ?  ' 

*  At  Shonnen,'  said  the  boy,  with  a  break  in  his  voice  which 
made  Sheila  open  her  eyes  very  wide  indeed. 

'  Don't  cry,  little  boy,'  she  said,  in  a  gentle,  patronizing, 
reassuring  tone,  such  as  a  mother  might  employ  towards  her 
child.  *  Would  you  like  better  to  live  in  this  house?' 

'Yes;  Shonnen  is  a  little  house,  and  it  is  on  the  roadside,' 
said  Fergus  contemptuously.  '  I  can't  live  in  it.' 

'Well,  I'm  sure  my  mamma  and  my  new  papa  will  let  you 
live  here  if  you  ask  them.  It  is  such  a  big  house — rooms,  and 
rooms,  and  rooms,  nearly  as  many  as  Aunt  Ailsa's.  Then  you 
and  I  could  play  cattie  and  doggie.  Do  you  know  cattie  and 
doggie,  little  boy  ? ' 

'  No ;  I  never  play.  I'm  a  great  deal  too  old  for  that.  I  am 
nine,'  said  the  lad.  '  Are  you  five  yet  ? ' 

'  O  yes ;  next  Sunday  is  my  birthday,  and  I  am  six.  See, 
my  sash  is  the  same  colour  as  your  kilt.  Don't  touch  it,  little 
boy  ;  your  hands  are  all  wet.' 

'  I'm  not  touching  it,  and  my  hands  are  quite  dry,'  said 
Fergus  quickly.  '  Don't  call  me  a  boy.  I  can  ride  Uncle 
Graham's  Mora — a  big,  wild  horse — and  I  have  had  a  pony 
since  I  was  six.  Did  you  ever  see  a  pony  ?  ' 

'  Yes ;  I  ride  on  Alastair  Murray's  pony  when  I  am  at  Aunt 
Ailsa's.  Do  you  know  Aunt  Ailsa,  Fergus  ?  I  love  her  next  to 
mamma.' 

'  No,  I  don't  know  your  Aunt  Ailsa,'  said  Fergus  quickly. 

In  looking  round  the  familiar  room  it  had  suddenly  come 
upon  the  boy  that  he  had  no  right  in  Dalmore.  Young  though 
he  was,  he  had  learned  to  love  the  place  with  a  love  which  was 
to  sadden  youth  and  early  manhood  with  a  dark  cloud.  Very 
early  had  the  cross  fallen  on  the  shoulders  of  Fergus  Macleod. 

*  You  are  a  rude  little  boy,  Fergus  Macleod,'  said  Sheila, 
in  her  quiet,  quaint  way.  'Aunt  Ailsa  makes  her  boys  so 


40  SHEILA. 

polite  to  ladies.  But  then  you  have  no  Aunt  Ailsn,  Have 
you  come  over  to  see  mamma  and  me  to-day  ? ' 

'  No ;  I  came  because  there  is  no  garden  or  stable,  or^-or 
anything,  at  Shonnen,'  said  the  boy,  with  a  strange,  weary 
look.  4  Will  your  mamma  be  angry  if  she  sees  me  here  ?  * 

'My  mamma  is  never  angry.  She  will  let  you  live  here,  I 
am  quite  sure,'  said  Sheila  promptly.  '  And  I'll  ask  my  new 
papa.  He  said  he  would  buy  me  a  pony,  and  you  can  ride  on 
it,  Fergus,  when  I  am  not  on  it.' 

4  My  mother  said  you  would  never  let  us  into  Dalmore 
•again,  and  so  I  came  up  to  see,'  said  Fergus. 

*  Just  sit  down,  and  wait  till  my  mamma  comes,'  said  Sheila 
reassuringly ;  and,  taking  the  boy's  bonnet  from  his  hand,  she 
led  him  over  to  the  fire.  It  was  delightful  to  see  her;  the 
exquisite  blending  of  sympathy  and  protection  and  childlike 
tenderness  in  her  whole  demeanour,  was  unlike  a  child.  So 
chese  two,  whose  way  of  life  was  to  lead  them  together  into 
many  strange  paths,  met,  and  drew  to  each  other,  without  any 
prevision  of  that  eventful  future  in  store. 

Presently  the  servant  came  in  to  replenish  the  fire,  and,  after 
one  look  at  the  children,  sitting  contentedly  side  by  side,  went 
jut  with  a  tear  in  her  eye. 

'I  wish  Leddy  Macleod  saw  the  picture  in  the  drawing- 
room,'  she  said  to  her  mates.  '  It  wad  serve  her  for  meat  an' 
irink  for  a  week,  an'  more.  I  dout  she'll  no  divide  Shonnen 
in'  Dalmore.' 

Almost  as  she  made  her  speech,  the  carriage  with  the  Laird 
and  his  wife  swept  up  to  the  door,  and  in  a  few  moments 
Kdith  Murray  crossed  the  threshold  of  her  new  home,  leaning 
m  her  husband's  arm.  Sheila  was  not  in  the  hall,  but  through 
the  open  doors,  and  down  the  staircase,  there  came  floating  the 
merry  music  of  children's  voices,  and  the  clatter  of  hurrying 
feet 

4  Did  any  of  her  cousins  come  up  with  Miss  Sheila,  Anne  ? ' 
she  asked,  with  a  smile,  turning  to  the  familiar  face  of  her  own 
maid. 

4  No,  ma'am,'  said  Anne,  smiling  too ;  for  she  was  delighted 
to  see  her  mistress  looking  so  well  and  happy. 


WELCOME  HOME.  41 

Then  the  Laird  and  his  wife  went  upstairs  together,  and,  the 
drawing-room  door  being  open,  they  had  a  full  view  of  the  firelit 
interior,  where  a  little  elf  in  white  was  running  laughing  round 
the  room,  pursued  by  Fergus,  laughing  all  his  might  too. 
Cattie  and  doggie  had  begun  1 

'  Who  is  that,  Graham  ? '  she  whispered. 

1  Ellen's  boy,  my  dear.  The  bairns  will  make  peace  in 
Dalmore,'  he  said  significantly.  'Hulloa!  is  not  this  a  pretty 
din  to  kick  up  in  a  drawing-room,  eh  ? ' 

The  children  came  to  a  dead  stop ;  then  Sheila,  with  a  shriek 
of  delight,  sprang  into  her  mother's  arms;  but,  in  spite  of  his 
uncle's  reassuring  smile,  the  boy  hung  back,  remembering  his 
mother's  words.  Ay,  Ellen  Macleod  had  poisoned  the  young 
heart  against  Dalmore,  and  could  she  have  seen  the  picture  in 
the  drawing-room  that  night,  her  ire  would  have  been  great 
indeed. 

'  This  is  Fergus,  mamma ;  such  a  nice  little  boy,'  said  Sheila, 
presently  slipping  from  her  mother's  arms.  '  He  is  afraid  of 
you,  mamma — just  think  1 ' 

'Fergus  will  not  be  afraid  of  me,  darling,  after  to-night/ 
said  Edith  Macdonald;  and  at  sound  of  the  sweet  voice  the 
boy's  eyes  were  raised  almost  wonderingly  to  the  face  of  the 
speaker.  She  put  her  two  soft,  kind  hands  on  his  shoulders, 
and,  bending  down,  kissed  him  straight  on  the  brow  above  his 
earnest  eyes. 

*  I  am  Aunt  Edith,  dear.     Do  you  think  you  will  love  me 
a  little  ?     I  intend  to  love  you  a  great  deal.' 

'  Oh,  Uncle  Graham  1 '  cried  the  lad,  breaking  from  her,  and 
holding  fast  by  his  uncle's  hand,  for  there  was  a  perfect  con- 
fidence between  them ;  '  mother  said  they  would  hate  me,  and 
put  me  out  of  Dalmore.' 

*  And  you  have  come  to  see  for  yourself,  Fergus  ? '  said  his 
uncle.     'That   was   right.     Learn   early    to   form  and   act  on 
your   own    opinion.     It  will   make    you    independent.     Well, 
Edith,  in  spite  of  the  dreary  look  of  the  place   outside,  this 
looks   comfortable    enough,    eh?'   he    asked,    turning   to   his 
wife. 

'  Yes ;  this  is  a  lovely  old  room,  Graham,  and  the  children 


42  SHEILA. 

make  it  home-like.  If  only  the  boy's  mother  had  stayed  to 
welcome  me,'  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

'She'll  never  do  that,  so  there's  no  use  making  yourself 
miserable  about  it,'  said  Macdonald,  and  his  mouth  took  a 
stern  curve.  '  Well,  Fergus,  what's  been  happening  in  Amulree 
and  the  Fauld  while  I  have  been  away  ? ' 

'Nothing  much,  Uncle  Graham.  I  fought  Angus  M'Bean 
in  the  school  on  Tuesday,  and  the  master  thrashed  me.' 

'What  school?' 

'  Peter  Crerar's.     I  go  there  now.' 

Macdonald  bit  his  lip,  and  his  wife  saw  his  eyes  flash. 

'Upon  my  word,  Ellen's  folly  transcends  everything!'  he 
muttered.  '  But  why  in  the  world  can't  you  go  on  as  usual 
with  your  lessons  at  the  manse  ? ' 

The  boy's  face  flushed,  and  he  did  not  speak. 

'  Did  your  mother  give  you  any  reason,  Fergus  ? '  asked  his 
uncle  quickly,  noticing  his  hesitation. 

'  She  said  that  as  I  would  need  to  make  my  own  living,  the 
sooner  I  made  friends  among  poor  boys  the  better,'  said  the 
boy,  in  a  slow  and  pained  voice,  for  he  felt  it  acutely.  He  was 
old  beyond  his  years.  The  constant  companionship  of  grown- 
up people  had  given  his  childish  thoughts  the  maturity  of 
manhood.  Though  he  was  compelled  to  obey  his  mother,  he 
had  felt  her  injustice  and  foolish  resentment.  It  was  scarcely 
a  child's  action  to  come  to  Dalmore  to  see  for  himself  how 
matters  stood. 

'Angus  M'Bean  is  the  factor's  son,  Edith,'  said  Macdonald, 
looking  towards  his  wife.  '  Pray,  what  were  ye  fighting  about  ? ' 

'  He  laughed  at  my  mother,  Uncle  Graham,  and  asked  how 
we  liked  Shonnen,'  said  Fergus,  with  heaving  bosom,  *  and  I 
just  knocked  him  down  straight  on  the  floor  in  the  school. 
The  master  thrashed  me,  and  when  we  got  out  I  fought  Angus 
on  the  road.' 

'You  bloodthirsty  young  rascal!'  laughed  Macdonald;  but 
his  wife  saw  that  he  was  pleased  with  the  spirit  of  the  boy. 
'And  who  beat?' 

'It  was  a  drawn  battle,'  said  Fergus  proudly.  *But  I'll 
fight  him  when  I'm  bigger.  He's  a  far  bigger  boy  than  me, 


WELCOME  HOME.  43 

and  stronger,  too.  But  he's  a  coward,  Uncle  Graham.  He 
bits  little  boys  and  girls.' 

It  would  be  impossible  to  set  down  the  emphasis  which 
Fergus  laid  on  the  last  word. 

'Then  he's  a  horrid  boy,  and  I  hate  him  1'  cried  Sheila 
shrilly.  'I  like  you,  Fergus,  and  you  can  ride  on  my  pony 
if  you  like.' 

'But  he  has  his  own  pony.  Donald  is  in  the  stable,  isn't 
he,  Fergus?' 

'Yes,  Uncle  Graham;  but  mother  says  I'm  not  to  go  on 
him,  nor  come  to  Dalmore  any  more,'  cried  Fergus,  in  a  great 
burst  of  sorrow ;  and,  ashamed  of  his  tears,  he  turned  round 
and  ran  out  of  the  room. 

None  attempted  to  detain  him.  They  saw  that  the  childish 
heart  was  full,  and  that  it  would  have  its  vent.  Edith  Mac- 
donald  turned  away  to  her  dressing-room  with  a  shadow  in 
her  eyes  and  on  her  heart. 

'What  a  woman,  Graham!'  she  said,  when  she  was  able  to 
speak.  'Although  she  is  his  mother,  she  is  not  fit  to  have  the 
care  of  that  fine,  sensitive-souled  boy.  She'll  break  his  heart.' 

Tm  not  done  with  Ellen  yet,'  said  Macdonald  grimly. 
'  She  has  forgotten  that  her  husband  left  me  guardian  of  the 
boy,  and  she  can't  do  what  she  pleases  with  his  education  and 
upbringing.  Peter  Crerar's  school,  indeed!  The  woman's  a 
perfect  fool.' 

'  It  must  have  been  a  great  blow  to  her,  when  she  acted  so,' 
said  Edith,  with  a  sigh.  'I  wonder  if  we  have  acted  right, 
Graham?' 

'Now,  Edith,  after  all  my  warnings,  you  are  just  going  to 
fret  about  this.  What  you  have  to  do  is  to  make  yourself 
happy  and  at  home  in  Dalmore.  It  is  yours  now.  I'll  deal 
with  Ellen.  As  for  the  boy,  if  he  turns  out  as  he  promises, 
he'll  not  be  a  sufferer.  I  like  him,  and  I'll  do  my  duty  by 
him.  But  Ellen  must  be  brought  to  her  senses  first,  or  she'll 
ruin  him.' 

Meanwhile,  Fergus,  with  wet  eyes,  and  sore,  sore  heart,  was 
running  all  his  might  down  the  avenue,  away  from  Dalmore. 

When  he  reached  the  bridge  spanning  the  Girron  Burn,  he 


44  SHEILA. 

stood  on  it  a  little  while  with  the  rain  beating  down  upon  him, 
watching  the  foaming  torrent,  whose  current  carried  all  before 
it.  Three  days'  rain  had  brought  the  burn  down  in  flood. 
There  was  something  soothing  to  the  boy  in  the  swift  rush  of 
that  wild  tide,  and  before  he  had  watched  it  for  many  minutes 
he  began  to  wonder  how  many  days  it  would  be  before  he 
could  fish  the  burn.  There  was  a  long  yellow  line  in  the  far 
west,  and  the  lowering  clouds  were  beginning  to  lighten,  and 
the  wet  caps  of  mist  to  roll  from  the  mountain  tops.  The 
storm  was  nearly  over,  and  by  Saturday,  he  calculated,  the 
burn  might  be  in  order.  Having  arrived  at  this  conclusion, 
he  walked  soberly  over  to  the  road,  and,  passing  by  the  school 
and  the  inn,  turned  off  to  his  new  home. 

It  was  a  bare,  barren-looking  house,  not  much  bigger  than 
a  cottage,  though  it  was  called  Shonnen  Lodge.  It  stood  by 
the  roadside,  and  had  no  garden,  but  only  a  few  stunted  birch 
trees  at  either  side,  and  the  gaunt,  bare  slope  of  Craig  Hulich 
rising  abruptly  behind  it.  It  was  a  bitter  change  indeed  from 
Dalmore,  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  both  mother  and  son  felt 
it  keenly.  Ellen  Macleod  had  missed  the  boy  from  the  house, 
and,  watching  by  the  upper  front  windows,  she  saw  him  cross 
the  Girron  Burn,  and  guessed  where  he  had  been. 

She  opened  the  door  to  him  herself,  and  bade  him  come  in, 
in  a  sharp,  angry  voice. 

'You've  been  at  Dalmore,  Fergus?' 

'Yes,  mother,'  he  answered,  in  a  low  voice. 

•And  are  you  satisfied  now?'  she  asked  snappishly.  *I  saw 
them  ride  by  in  their  fine  carriage.  You  got  a  sorry  welcome, 
I  expect,  that  you  have  come  back  so  soon  ?  * 

'  Mother,  I  don't  think  they  are  what  you  said,'  he  ventured 
to  say,  in  a  low  voice.  'Aunt  Edith  is  very  kind.' 

'  Aunt  Edith,  indeed  1  Have  you  got  that  length  already  ? ' 
she  asked  sourly.  '  Do  you  know  you  deliberately  disobeyed 
me  this  afternoon,  Fergus  ? ' 

*  I  am  sorry,  mother.     I  forgot.' 

'That  is  no  excuse.  If  you  forget  what  I  say  again,  Fergus, 
I  must  punish  you  very  severely.  I  will  not  do  it  to-day,  as 
I  suppose  you  were  curious  to  see  them,'  she  said  contemptu- 


WELCOME  HOME.  45 

ously.  '  Hear  me  again.  You  are  not  to  go  to  Dalmore.  You 
have  no  right  in  it.  That  woman  and  her  child  have  taken  it 
from  you.  She  is  not  your  aunt.  I  forbid  _you  to  call  her 
aunt.' 

The  boy  never  spoke,  but  crouched  down  by  the  fire  like 
a  dog  who  has  been  beaten  for  a  fault  he  cannot  understand. 
He  thought  of  the  place  he  had  left  not  long  ago — of  the 
happy,  laughing  child;  of  the  sweet-faced,  kind- voiced  mother  ; 
and  of  his  uncle,  whom,  with  all  his  sternness,  he  dearly  loved. 
No  doubt  the  tie  which  binds  mother  and  child  is  strong,  but 
can  it  not  be  weakened — nay,  almost  severed — by  coldness  and 
neglect?  Ellen  Macleod  had  done  very  little  to  win  the  boy's 
love,  and  he  had  a  deep,  sensitive,  yearning  heart.  She  did 
not  know  what  a  harvest  of  anguish  she  was  heaping  up  for 
herself — ay,  and  for  him ;  for  there  came  a  day  when  the 
conflict  betwixt  choice  and  duty  became  a  matter  of  awful 
moment  for  Fergus  Macleod. 


CHAPTER  V. 


THE    KIRK   OF   AMULREE. 

But  on  that  gentle  heart  a  shadow  fell 
And  darkly  lay,  stealing  the  sunlight  sweet 
From  out  Her  life. 


HE  next  day  was  the  Sabbath.  It  dawned  fair  and 
bright  for  October,  with  a  clear,  soft  sky  overhead, 
and  a  sprinkling  of  hoar-frost  scattered  like  manna 
on  the  ground.  The  roads  even  were  made  crisp 
and  firm  by  the  first  frost  of  the  season,  and  walking  was  very 
pleasant.  The  Laird's  folk  went  on  foot  to  the  church  in 
Amulree, — Macdonald  and  his  fair  wife  before,  and  Anne,  with 
Sheila,  coming  up  behind.  There  was  a  goodly  gathering  in 
the  kirk,  for  the  fine  season  had  tempted  the  shooting  tenants 
to  linger  longer  than  usual,  and  all  the  country  folk  turned 
out  in  expectation  of  seeing  the  new  lady  of  Dal  more. 

They  could  not  think  enough  of  it  when  they  saw  her  come 
walking  up  the  road  so  humbly  and  unostentatiously,  like 
themselves,  without  a  bit  of  display  or  grandeur  to  make  her 
conspicuous.  The  kirk  stood  on  a  piece  of  rising  ground  over- 
looking the  river,  as  it  ran  swiftly  and  silently  from  its  source 
in  the  loch.  It  was  a  fine  situation,  and  the  church  itself  was 
a  picturesque  -white-washed  building,  of  long,  narrow  construc- 
tion, and  having  a  curious  little  belfry,  containing  a  tinkling, 


THE  KIRK  OF  AMULREE.  47 

old-fashioned  bell.  The  grassy  enclosure  surrounding  the 
church  was  used  as  a  burying-ground,  as  was  evidenced  by  the 
uneven  mounds  scattered  here  and  there,  though  there  were 
but  few  headstones  to  be  seen. 

The  Laird's  pew  was  on  the  left  hand  of  the  pulpit,  and  after 
entering,  Mrs.  Macdonald  knelt  for  a  moment  in  silent  prayer — 
an  action  so  unusual  in  the  kirk  of  Amulree,  that  one  looked 
to  the  other,  and  there  were  even  more  than  one  solemn  head- 
shaking.  It  was  rather  like  a  Papist,  they  thought,  but  hoped 
the  Laird  had  not  been  drawn  into  an  unholy  marriage. 

In  these  few  brief  seconds  Edith  Macdonald  had  time  to 
breathe  a  passionate  prayer  for  a  blessing  on  her  new  life  and 
home.  The  Laird  looked  proud  and  happy  enough,  however. 
There  was  no  doubt  as  to  his  opinion  about  the  step  he  had 
taken;  and  as  for  Sheila,  she  sat  very  bolt  upright,  with  her 
big  brown  eyes  wandering  over  the  whole  interior  of  the  kirk. 
It  was  the  very  funniest  church  she  had  ever  been  in  in  all 
her  life. 

The  Laird's  seat  was  cushioned,  and  the  boards  were  laid 
pretty  evenly  on  the  floor,  but  along  the  passages — and,  indeed, 
in  all  the  other  pews — there  was  no  attempt  at  systematic 
flooring ;  and  in  many  places,  notably  under  the  long  com- 
munion table,  which  ran  from  end  to  end  of  the  church,  the 
sandy  soil  was  quite  uncovered.  It  was  a  cold,  uninviting 
place  altogether,  very  different  from  the  little  Episcopalian 
chapel  in  Dunkeld,  which  Edith  had  regularly  attended. 

Then  the  pulpit  and  the  precentor's  box  below  were  curious 
narrow  contrivances,  very  deep  and  narrow,  in  which  the 
preacher's  eloquence  was  kept  within  due  limits.  But  the 
kirk  of  Amulree  had  always  been  noted  for  the  solidity  of  its 
pulpit  ministrations,  and  had  no  connection  with  such  frivolities 
as  loud  shouting  of  the  Word,  and  senseless  throwing  about  of 
the  arms  to  enforce  its  doctrine.  A  fine  drowsy  atmosphere 
usually  pervaded  the  kirk  during  the  three-quarters  of  an  hour 
the  sermon  lasted. 

Just  as  the  bell  began  to  ring,  the  Laird  opened  the  door 
of  the  pew,  and  in  walked  Colin,  quite  doucely,  and  curled 
himself  up  on  the  floor.  He  had  been  over  at  Shonnen,  and 


48  SHEILA. 

had  come  to  church,  as  usual,  at  Fergus  Macleod's  heels.  After 
Colin  lay  down,  the  Laird  kept  his  eye  on  the  door,  wonder- 
ing how  Ellen  would  conduct  herself,  and  whether  she  would 
have  the  presumption  to  come  down  and  sit  in  the  pew  beside 
the  woman  against  whom  she  cherished  such  causeless  anger. 

She  came  in  at  length,  with  her  thick  crape  veil  hanging 
down  over  her  face,  and  took  a  seat  in  a  pew  near  the  door, 
out  of  sight  of  the  folk  from  Dal  more.  Sheila's  small  stature 
prevented  her  seeing  where  Fergus  went,  but  she  was  sorry 
he  did  not  come  to  sit  by  her.  Her  attention,  however,  was 
presently  diverted  by  the  entrance  of  an  individual  in  a  sweep- 
ing black  cloak,  who  came  down  the  aisle  with  an  air  of  dignity 
very  impressive  to  behold.  It  was  not  the  minister,  however, 
but  Ewan  M'Fadyen,  the  precentor,  quite  as  important  and 
necessary  an  official  as  the  minister — perhaps,  in  his  own 
estimation,  more  so. 

He  stepped  into  his  box,  closed  the  door,  and  blew  his  nose 
with  an  astounding  report,  Sheila  watching  him  with  the  most 
open-eyed  wonder  all  the  while.  Her  mother  could  not  but 
smile,  indeed,  at  the  expression  on  her  face.  The  Laird 
smiled  too,  when  Ewan,  without  the  least  shame  or  attempt  to 
hide  his  object,  stood  up  and  turned  towards  the  Dalmore  pew. 
Now  Ewan  had  a  peculiar  cast  in  his  eye,  which  gave  his  face 
a  somewhat  evil  expression,  and  when  he  was  looking  intently 
at  anything,  he  screwed  his  '  skelly '  eye  up  until  it  contorted 
the  side  of  his  face  and  made  his  visage  a  sight  to  see.  In  this 
singular  but  characteristic  manner  Ewan  stared  at  the  Laird's 
wife  for  a  full  second  or  so,  and  then,  slowly  nodding  his  head, 
sat  down  and  took  a  pinch  of  snuff,  indicative  of  his  absolute 
approval  Edith  hastily  drew  down  her  veil,  not  only  to  hide 
her  rising  colour,  but  the  smile  which  was  like  to  become  a 
laugh.  Then  the  minister  gave  out  the  psalm,  and  Ewan 
stood  up  to  raise  the  tune,  which  was  'Martyrdom.'  Ewan 
M'Fadyen's  mode  of  conducting  the  psalmody  was  unique  in 
the  extreme,  and  alasl  too  often  provocative  of  mirth  among 
the  ungodly  strangers  who  were  occasional  visitors  to  the  kirk 
of  Amulree.  He  held  the  book  directly  out  from  his  nose, 
nml  had  his  five  fingers  carefully  spread  out  upon  the  boards. 


THE  KIRK  OF  AMULREE.  49 

After  having  read  aloud  the  first  two  lines  in  a  half  singing 
voice,  he  cleared  his  throat,  and  attempted  to  raise  the  first 
note.  But  it  would  not  come,  as  a  usual  thing,  until  the  fourth 
or  fifth  clearing  of  the  throat,  each  time  more  loudly  than 
before,  and  with  his  one  eye  closed  up  all  the  time.  The 
magic  seemed  to  lie  in  his  fingers,  for  when  they  began  to 
move  on  the  boards  Ewan  moved  also,  and  the  tune  was  raised. 

His  utter  unconsciousness  of  any  oddity  or  singularity  in  his 
preliminaries  was  most  delightful  to  behold ;  but  it  was  a  fear 
ful  trial  to  the  decorum  of  those  unaccustomed  to  the  scene. 
The  Laird's  wife  shook  with  silent  laughter,  and  even  Macdonald 
thought  Ewan  excelled  himself.  Sheila  amused  him,  perhaps, 
more  than  Ewan.  She  stood  on  tiptoe  on  the  seat,  with  her 
small  neck  craned,  in  order  that  she  might  have  a  full  view  of 
the  precentor's  box.  There  was  no  smile  on  her  face,  or  any 
sign  of  amusement — only  a  look  of  perfect,  solemn  wonder, 
which  was  irresistible.  I  fear  that,  on  the  whole,  the  spirit  of 
solemnity  befitting  the  solemn  exercises  of  the  day  was  rather 
wanting  in  the  Laird's  pew  that  morning.  Edith,  however, 
enjoyed  the  sermon,  and  had  time  to  compose  her  thoughts. 
She  wished,  indeed,  that  the  service  had  closed  with  the 
sermon,  for  Ewan's  extraordinary  gestures  and  grimaces  once 
more  banished  every  serious  thought  from  her  mind.  They 
did  not  hasten  out  of  the  church,  and  when  they  rose  at  length 
all  the  benches  were  empty  except  the  seat  where  Ellen 
Macleod  sat,  with  her  grave-faced  boy  by  her  side.  Edith  saw 
her,  and,  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  stepped  round  before 
the  precentor's  box,  and  stood  directly  before  her. 

'Ellen,'  she  said,  and  her  sweet  voice  shook  as  she  extended 
her  hand,  '  we  are  in  the  house  of  God.  Will  you  not  touch 
my  hand  in  token  of  friendship  and  forgiveness  if  I  have  un- 
wittingly done  wrong?' 

It  was  an  appeal  few  could  have  resisted.  The  eyes  of 
Fergus  were  raised  to  his  mother's  face  with  an  imploring  look, 
but  without  any  effect  on  the  stony  heart  of  Ellen  Macleod. 
She  rose  from  her  seat,  and,  without  raising  her  veil,  swept 
her  brother's  wife  a  little  haughty  curtsey,  and  passed  out  of 
the  church. 
4 


50  SHEILA. 

Edith  hastily  drew  down  her  own  veil,  not  wishing  her 
husband  to  see  her  tears.  But  he  saw  the  whole  scene,  and 
when  she  joined  him  there  was  a  dark  cloud  on  his  brow. 

1  You  ought  not  to  have  humiliated  yourself  to  her,  Edith,' 
he  said,  more  hastily  than  he  had  ever  spoken  to  her  before. 
But  at  that  moment  their  attention  was  directed  by  Ewan 
M'Fadyen  standing  on  the  doorstep  in  his  robe  of  office,  with  a 
bland  smile  on  his  face. 

'  I  wish  you  good-morning,  Laird,  and  a  full  measure 
of  prosperous  felicity  to  yourself  and  your  noble  lady,'  said 
Ewan,  trotting  out  his  best  English  and  most  'lang-nebbit' 
words  to  grace  the  occasion;  'and  I  make  bold  to  prophesy 
and  prognosticate  that  never,  in  all  the  pellucid  annals  of  the 
ancient  house  of  Macdonald,  has  a  fairer,  more  noble  lady 
reigned  paramount  in  Dalmore.' 

It  was  a  happy  interruption,  and  the  Laird  burst  into  a 
laugh. 

'  Oh,  Ewan,  man,  spare  your  lang-nebbit  words.  Stick  to 
plain  speaking  or  Gaelic,  if  you  want  to  be  impressive,'  he  said. 
'  Mrs.  Macdonald,  let  me  present  Ewan  M'Fadyen,  our  worthy 
precentor.  He  is  a  tenant  in  Achnafauld.  You'll  likely  know 
him  better  by  and  by.' 

'I  hope  so,'  said  Edith;  and,  with  a  pleasant  smile,  she 
extended  her  hand  to  honest  Ewan. 

'  May  every  auspicious  blessing  descend  on  your  honourable 
head,  madam  1'  he  said,  bending  his  shaggy  head  over  it.  'As 
I  said  before,  I  prognosticate  again  that  you  will  be  the  author 
and  originator  of  many  blessed  days  for  Dalmore.' 

Macdonald,  laughing  still,  took  his  wife  on  his  arm  and 
hurried  her  out  to  the  carriage,  which  he  had  ordered  to  be  in 
waiting  to  convey  them  up  the  steep  ascent  to  Dalmore.  The 
country  folks  were  lingering  about  the  churchyard  and  the 
manse  road,  eager  for  a  better  look  at  the  Laird's  wife.  They 
were  mostly  his  tenants,  though  Edith  did  not  know  it,  but  she 
had  a  smile  for  all.  Just  as  Macdonald  handed  his  wife  into 
the  carriage,  a  horseman  rode  up,  and,  taking  off  his  hat,  drew 
rein,  evidently  wishing  to  be  presented. 

1  Angus  M'Bean,  farmer  in  Auchloy,  and  my  steward,  Edith, 


THE  KIRK  OF  AMULREE.  51 

whispered  Macdonald.  '  You  must  excuse  us,  M'Bean.  Come 
up  to  the  house  and  pay  your  respects  to  Mrs.  Macdonald.  The 
kirk  door  is  hardly  the  place  to  hold  a  levee.' 

Somewhat  chagrined,  Mr.  M'Bean  raised  his  hat  again,  and 
rode  off.  He  had  hoped  for  a  better  reception  before  all  the 
cottars,  and  Mrs.  Macdonald's  acknowledgment  of  him  had  been 
a  little  distant.  She  was  not,  indeed,  very  favourably  impressed 
by  his  hard,  keen  visage  and  rather  forward  manners.  Angus 
M'Bean  did  not  like  to  be  called  a  land-steward.  He  always 
called  and  wrote  himself  factor  to  Macdonald  of  Dalmore. 

'  The  manners  and  customs  up  here  are  rather  primitive, 
Graham,'  said  Mrs.  Macdonald,  as  the  carriage  rolled  along  the 
smooth  road  to  the  Girron  Brig. 

'  Ay ;  perhaps  I  ought  to  have  prepared  you  for  Dugald's 
eccentricities.  We  are  accustomed  to  them,  and  they  do  not 
strike  us.  He  is  quite  a  character.  Did  you  notice  his  noble 
manner  of  expressing  himself  ?  ' 

*It  is  about  as  absurd  as  his  singing,'  laughed  Edith. 

1  Ay ;  if  he  can  get  a  long  word  hauled  in,  in  it  goes,  whether 
it  has  any  fitness  or  not.  I  suppose  it  must  have  some  sig- 
nificance to  himself.  They  get  some  terrible  laughs  at  him, 
along  at  Donald  Macalpine,  the  smith's.  Well,  Sheila,  you  are 
very  quiet.' 

4  Oh,  mamma,  such  a  funny,  funny  church ! '  said  Sheila, 
able  to  laugh  now  at  what  had  held  her  spell-bound  at  first. 
'  Did  you  ever  see  a  church  where  dogs  go  to  ?  Papa,  may  I 
take  Tory  next  Sunday  ?  ' 

*  I  doubt  Tory  would  not  keep  so  quiet  as  Colin.  He  has 
not  been  trained  to  church-going,'  said  Macdonald.  'The 
shepherds'  dogs  always  accompany  their  masters  to  church  in 
the  Highlands.' 

'  Fergus  never  came  to  speak  to  us,  papa.  Does  he  live  far 
away  from  here  ? ' 

'  At  the  other  side  of  the  church.  I  daresay  you  will  see  him. 
to-morrow.  He  is  always  about  on  the  hills,'  said  Macdonald ; 
and  began  to  name  some  of  the  hills  to  Edith,  for  he  saw  her 
eyes  cloud.  Ay,  Ellen  Macleod  had  cast  a  shadow  on  Dalmore 
which  would  be  ever  present  with  its  gentle  mistress,  robbing 


52  SHEILA. 

her  married  life  of  half  its  sweetness.  Macdonald,  who  was  not 
in  the  least  put  about  by  his  sister's  foolish  conduct,  except  to 
feel  a  trifle  annoyed  when  any  new  phase  of  it  struck  him, 
could  not  understand  how  it  weighed  upon  his  wife's  heart,  nor 
how  she  brooded  upon  it  in  silence  and  solitude,  and  prayed 
that  the  only  cloud  on  her  happiness  might  be  swept  away. 
It  might  have  given  Ellen  Macleod  a  grim  satisfaction  had  she 
known  that  her  uncompromising  enmity  was  to  her  brother's 
wife  a  veritable  skeleton  in  the  cupboard. 

'Now,  Edith,'  said  Macdonald,  following  her  up  to  her 
dressing-room  when  they  entered  the  house,  '  I  could  not  hear 
what  you  said  to  Ellen,  but  I  know  it  was  an  appeal  of  some 
sort.  It  is  to  be  the  last.  She  shall  beg  your  pardon  before 
she  sets  foot  in  Dalmore  again.  I  mean  what  I  say.' 

He  put  his  hands  with  a  kind  of  rough  kindness  on  her 
shoulders,  and  turned  her  face  to  him,  in  order  to  enforce  his 
words.  She  tried  to  smile  at  him,  as  she  answered  tremu- 
lously,— 

1 1  wanted  to  give  her  a  chance,  Graham.  I  am  so  happy,  I 
cannot  bear  that  there  should  be  any  cloud.  Do  you  think  she 
will  relent?' 

'  Do  you  see  Craig  Hulich  over  there,  Edith  ?  Do  you  think 
it  could  walk  over  here  and  place  itself  in  the  Girron  Burn? 
Ellen  Macleod  will  never  forgive  you,  so  the  sooner  you  forget 
that  she  is  in  existence  the  better.' 

'  I  am  sorry  for  the  boy.  We  must  try  and  make  it  up  to 
him,  Graham.'  « 

'  If  she  will  let  me.  But  she'll  watch  him,  poor  laddie  I  like 
a  hawk.  But  I'll  keep  my  eye  on  Fergus  for  his  father's  sake, 
and  for  his  own.  He's  as  fine  a  lad  as  ever  wore  the  kilt,  and 
none  of  his  mother's  ill-temper  about  him,  if  she  does  not  spoil 
him  in  the  making.' 

It  seemed  a  fearful  thing  to  Edith  Macdonald  that  a  woman 
should  cherish  a  mortal  enmity  in  her  heart,  and  pride  herself 
that  she  never  forgave  an  injury.  She  could  not  understand 
Ellen  Macleod's  fierce,  dark  creed ;  her  heart  had  in  it  nothing 
of  resentment,  but  only  pity,  and  she  would  have  served 
her  if  she  had  any  opportunity.  But  Ellen  Macleod  went  home 


THE  KIRK  OF  AMULRRE.  53 

to  the  plain  house  of  Shonnen  filled  with  hate  and  anger  against 
her  brother's  wife,  who  looked  so  fair  and  sweet  and  young  by 
his  side  that  d;iy  in  the  kirk  of  Amulree,  sitting  in  the  seat 
she  had  usurped.  And  Fergus,  weighed  down  by  a  feeling  of 
desolation  and  misery  he  could  not  understand,  walked  with 
downcast  head  by  her  side,  and  never  a  word  passed  between 
them.  The  boy  suffered  as  she  had  no  idea  of.  He  had  a 
feeling  heart  and  a  sensitive  soul.  Perhaps  he  was  too  young 
to  comprehend  the  difference  his  uncle's  marriage  might  make 
for  him ;  but  I  would  rather  believe  that  there  was  that  in  him 
which  could  rise  above  such  selfish  and  sordid  considerations. 
I  do  not  think  that  Fergus  M'Leod,  though  he  is  not  perfect, 
will  disappoint  us  in  the  end. 

*  Did  you  see  the  vain  thing,  like  a  peacock,  with  the  nodding 
feathers  in  her  bonnet? — not  a  fit  head-dress  for  the  kirk,'  said 
his  mother,  finding  her  tongue  at  length,  when  they  came  in 
sight  of  Shonnen.  '  A  vain,  empty  peacock  1  and  she  has  made 
a  bonnie  fool  of  jour  Uncle  Graham.' 

1  How,  mother  ? ' 

'  I  saw  the  folk  laugh  at  the  old  grey-headed  man  handing 
her  with  such  pride  into  the  coach.  Silly,  silly  fools!  She'll 
lead  him  a  fine  dance  yet,  or  I'm  mistaken.  What  did  you 
think  of  her,  Fergus?'  she  asked,  suddenly  bending  her  dark 
eyes  keenly  on  the  boy  at  her  side. 

'  I  thought,  mother,  she  looked  like  an  angel,'  said  the  boy 
simply,  and  without  hesitation  ;  for  such,  indeed,  had  been  his 
thought  as  he  saw  the  pale,  fair,  sweet  countenance  shining 
under  the  nodding  feathers  of  the  bridal  bonnet. 

'  Oh,  of  course  you'll  stick  up  for  her  I '  said  his  mother 
sourly.  '  Boy,  do  you  think  there  is  no  duty  from  a  son  to  his 
mother?  I  think  I'll  need  to  get  you  to  read  the  command- 
ments and  the  Catechism  this  very  day.' 

The  boy's  lips  quivered ;  and  when  they  passed  through  the 
gate  of  Shonnen,  instead  of  following  his  mother  into  the  hoiise, 
he  turned  round  the  end,  and,  climbing  up  the  rising  ground, 
threw  himself  down  on  a  heathery  hillock  among  the  scanty 
birches. 

Colin  followed,  and,  sitting  down  beside  him,  lifted  one  sober 


54 


SHEILA. 


paw  and  let  it  fall  on  his  master's  back.  His  tail  was  wagging 
sympathetically  all  the  while,  and  suddenly  Fergus  flung  his 
arms  around  his  neck,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  shaggy  hair. 

'  Oh,  Colin,  lad ! '  he  cried,  and  all  the  sore  grief  he  found  so 
ill  to  thole  was  expressed  in  that  weary  cry,  « there's  only  you 
an'  mel* 


CHAPTER  VL 


THE    NETHER    MILLSTONE. 

Dark  is  the  soul  whose  sullen  creed  can  bind 
In  chains  like  these. 

0.  "W.  HOLMM. 

ACDONALD  rode  down  to  Shonnen  Lodge  next  morn- 
ing before  breakfast.  He  knew  his  sister  was  an 
early  riser,  and  he  was  anxious  to  have  this  matter 
settled  as  soon  as  possible.  He  was  very  angry 
that  she  should  have  dared  to  send  the  boy  to  the  Fauld  school, 
and  knew  it  was  only  done  in  a  moment  of  passion  to  vex  him. 
For  Ellen  was  proud  enough ;  and,  though  it  had  pleased  her 
to  make  a  great  talk  about  the  poverty  and  obscurity  to  which 
her  brother's  marriage  had  consigned  her,  she  would  not  have 
allowed  any  one  else  to  hint  at  such  a  thing.  To  any  outsider, 
not  intimately  connected  with  the  family,  she  professed  herself 
quite  well  pleased  with  the  new  arrangement  at  Dalmore. 

Fergus,  an  early  riser  too,  was  out  on  the  hill,  and,  seeing  his 
uncle  come,  flew  down  to  meet  him. 

*  Yes,  you  can  take  Mora,  and  ride  her  gently  along  the  road, 
Fergus,  while  I  talk  to  your  mother.  Up  you  go  I ' 

With  a  little  assistance  from  his  uncle,  Fergus  sprang 
delightedly  to  the  saddle,  and  cantered  off  down  the  road 
towards  Loch  Fraochie.  His  uncle  stood  a  moiutnt  to  admire 


56  SHEILA. 

the  boy's  splendid  bearing  in  the  saddle,  and  to  note  how  well 
he  kept  the  fiery  mare  in  curb.  Fergus  Macleod  feared  no 
living  thing  in  the  world  except  his  mother. 

The  door  was  open,  and  Macdonald  walked  unceremoniously 
into  the  house.  He  found  his  sister  in  the  little  dining-room, 
sitting  over  the  fire  doing  nothing.  She  merely  looked  up  at 
her  brother's  entrance,  but  did  not  signify  in  any  way  that  she 
was  aware  of  his  presence. 

'  Well,  Ellen,  how  are  you  ?  Fine  morning  after  the  rain,'  he 
said  heartily. 

4  Is  it? '  she  asked  briefly ;  for  she  resented  the  happy,  hearty 
ring  in  his  voice,  the  brightness  in  his  eye ;  all  signs  of  the 
happiness  she  so  sorely  grudged  him.  She  considered  them 
insulting  to  herself  in  her  poor  estate. 

'Fergus  came  up  to  welcome  his  aunt  on  Saturday  night, 
though  you  didn't.  Still  in  the  tantrums,  eh  ? ' 

Ellen  Macleod  made  no  reply. 

'I  didn't  think  you'd  keep  up  an  ill-will  so  long,  Ellen,' 
he  said  gravely.  'Will  you  not  come  up  and  see  my 
wife?' 

'I  passed  my  word,  Macdonald.  All  I  ask  from  you  and 
yours  now  is  to  be  left  alone.' 

'You  are  likely  to  be.  You  are  not  such  pleasant  company, 
ma'am,'  returned  Macdonald  candidly.  '  It's  the  boy  I'm  come 
about.  So  you've  swallowed  your  pride,  and  sent  him  to  school 
with  the  cottars'  sons  ?  What's  to  be  the  meaning  or  end  of 
this,  I'd  like  to  know  ? ' 

'  I  can  do  what  I  like  with  my  own,  I  suppose  ? '  said  Ellen 
Macleod  slowly ;  '  and  as  Fergus  will  have  to  earn  his  bread 
by  the  labour  of  his  hands,  he  had  better  accustom  himself 
early  to  the  society  in  which  he  is  likely  to  move  in  future.' 

'  Ah,  well  I  it  won't  do  the  lad  any  harm  for  a  year  or  so,'  said 
Macdonald ;  and  his  off-hand  way  was  extremely  galling  to  his 
sister.  '  I'll  step  in  when  I  think  there's  need.  You're  making 
a  pretty  fool  of  yourself,  Ellen,  before  the  country-side,  I  can 
tell  you.' 

'  Much  do  I  care  for  the  talk  of  the  country-side  1 '  she 
exclaimed  passionately.  '  Go  back  to  your  pink-faced  wife, 


THE  NETHER  MILLSTONE.  57 

Macdonald,  and  leave  me  and  mine  in  peace.  You  look  gay 
and  happy  enough.  You  can  do  without  us.' 

'  Oh,  very  well ;  as  I  said  before,  it  was  the  boy  I  came  to 
see  after.  You  won't  be  able  to  keep  him  out  of  Dalmore, 
Ellen.' 

'I  have  laid  my  commands  on  him  again.  If  he  disobeys 
them  he  is  to  be  severely  punished.' 

'Then  the  boy  is  to  suffer  too?'  said  Macdonald  more 
gloomily.  'Be  careful  how  you  treat  him,  Ellen.  It  will  not 
be  easy  for  him  to  keep  away  from  the  old  place.  Let  him 
come  and  go  as  he  likes.' 

'  No,  I  shall  not.  If  I  am  cruel  it  is  to  be  kind.  He  would 
only  set  his  heart  more  and  more  on  the  place,  and  the  awaken- 
ing would  be  ten  times  more  bitter.  You  are  very  wise  in 
your  own  conceit,  Macdonald,  but  you  can't  teach  a  mother  how 
to  treat  her  own  son.' 

'  Well,  well,  perhaps  not.  I  suppose  I  may  speak  to  him  in 
passing,  may  I?'  asked  Macdonald,  with  a  slight  smile,  as  he 
turned  to  go. 

She  vouchsafed  him  no  reply,  and  so  the  unsatisfactory 
interview  came  to  an  end. 

Macdonald  was  not  in  the  least  depressed  by  it,  except 
for  the  boy's  sake.  He  felt  tempted  to  press  him  to  come  to 
Dalmore  as  often  as  he  pleased,  but  it  would  not  be  right,  he 
knew,  to  set  so  young  a  child  in  direct  defiance  of  his  mother's 
will,  though  that  will  were  harsh  and  unjust. 

'  Oh,  Uncle  Graham  1  it  is  just  splendid  to  ride  Mora,'  cried 
Fergus,  when  he  drew  rein,  breathlessly,  in  the  middle  of  the 
road  before  his  uncle.  '  When  I'm  a  man  I'll  buy  a  horse  just 
like  Mora.' 

'In  the  meantime,  my  boy,  what  is  to  become  of  your  own 
Donald?  He'll  eat  his  head  off  in  the  stable  if  you  don't  come 
up  to  Dalmore.' 

Fergus  threw  himself  from  the  saddle,  and  his  uncle  saw  that 
his  eyes  were  wet. 

'  We  must  manage  somehow,  Fergus,'  said  Macdonald 
cheerily.  '  When  you  want  Donald,  send  one  of  the  village 
boys  up,  and  he'll  bring  him  down  to  the  Girron  Brig  for  you. 


58  SHEILA. 

And  don't  vex  yourself.  This  cloud'll  maybe  blow  over  sooner 
than  you  think.' 

'Oh,  Uncle  Graham!'  The  boy's  face  positively  glowed 
through  his  tears,  and  he  laid  his  cheek  against  his  uncle's 
brown  hand  as  it  hung  down  by  Mora's  side. 

'Do  your  best  at  Peter  Crerar's,  Fergus,  and  keep  Angus 
M'Bean  in  order,'  said  Macdonald,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 
'  And  never  forget  that  your  uncle's  in  Dalmore — ay,  and 
your  aunt,  too,  Fergus.  She  wouldn't  hurt  a  hair  of  your 
head.' 

'  Oh,  I  know.     Good-bye.' 

Graham  Macdonald  did  not  readily  part  with  money,  but  if 
ever  the  generous  impulses  of  his  heart  had  been  called  into 
play,  the  last  few  weeks  had  done  it.  Edith  Murray  had 
wrought  a  change,  indeed,  in  grim  Macdonald  of  Dalmore. 

So,  when  Mora  cantered  off,  Fergus  found  himself  with  a 
golden  sovereign  in  his  palm,  and  what  was  much  better,  a 
glow  of  pleasure  at  his  heart.  Macdonald  was  a  king  in  his 
nephew's  eyes ;  for,  whatever  the  man's  faults,  and  they  were 
many,  he  had  been  a  kind,  affectionate  guardian  to  his  sister's 
son.  Macdonald  restrained  his  impatient  Mora,  and  rode 
slowly  along  the  river-side,  keeping  his  eye  on  the  fields  as  he 
went. 

A  backward  summer  had  made  a  late  harvest  in  Strathbraan 
and  Glenquaich,  and  the  cottars  in  Achnafauld,  whose  crofts 
stood  on  the  damp,  cold  soil  at  the  top  of  Loch  Fraochie,  were 
like  to  have  a  poor  return  for  their  labour.  There  were 
several  fields,  indeed,  lying  partially  submerged,  and  the 
standing  stooks  had  a  blackened,  stunted  appearance,  which 
augured  ill  for  the  quality  of  the  grain.  Macdonald  himself 
did  not  interfere  with  his  tenants,  all  his  dealings  with  them 
being  carried  on  through  the  medium  of  Angus  M'Bean,  the 
factor,  who  lived  in  Auchloy,  a  snug  domicile  on  the  Garrows 
side  of  the  loch.  If  there  was  a  man  in  the  strath  hated 
and  feared,  it  was  Angus  M'Bean,  but  by  dint  of  his  smooth 
tongue  and  economical  management  of  the  estate  he  had  made 
his  position  secure.  He  was  indispensable  to  the  Laird.  Mac- 
donald had  really  not  the  remotest  idea  of  the  way  the  tenants 


THE  NETHER  MILLSTONE.  59 

were  ground  to  the  earth,  and  because  he  exacted  the  rent 
to  the  uttermost  farthing,  did  not  know  at  what  cost  and 
sacrifice  it  was  paid.  And  Angus  M'Bean  took  very  good 
care  that  there  were  very  few  direct  comings  and  goings  betwixt 
the  Laird  and  the  tenants.  Macdonald  was  struck  by  the 
pitiable  appearance  of  the  crofts,  and  determined  to  ask 
Angus  M'Bean  whether  the  poorer  cottars  were  not  likely 
to  sustain  any  loss.  It  was  the  Laird's  boast  that  his  factor 
was  a  thoroughly  practical  man,  for  he  had  not  only  been  in 
his  early  days  a  cottar  himself,  but  had  for  many  years  now 
been  farmer  in  Auchloy,  the  largest  holding  attached  to 
Dalmore.  His  experience,  therefore,  fitted  him  in  a  peculiar 
way  to  understand  the  workings  of  the  estate  and  the  needs 
of  the  tenantry.  The  man  might  know  his  business  well 
enough,  but  he  was  a  tyrant  and  a  coward,  and  his  disposition 
was  selfish  and  avaricious  in  the  extreme.  Mr.  M'Bean  did 
not  approve  of  little  crofts,  nor  of  a  large  number  of  tenants 
on  an  estate.  They  gave  too  much  trouble  and  too  meagre 
returns,  and  it  was  his  hope  and  ambition  to  see  Achnafauld 
swept  clean  away  from  Glenqnaich,  and  Dalmore  and  Findowie 
let  out  in  large  farms.  But  his  progress  was  very  slow.  As 
long  as  the  rents  were  paid,  the  Laird  approved  the  cottars 
remaining  on  their  crofts.  The  same  families  had  inhabited 
the  little  thatched  cottages  for  hundreds  of  years — in  days, 
indeed,  before  the  name  of  Macdonald  was  known  in  Glenquaich. 
The  Laird  was  very  seldom  in  the  clachan,  and  when,  on  his 
return  from  visiting  his  sister,  he  rode  Mora  through  the  burn 
which  wimpled  past  the  doors,  the  wifies  all  ran  out  to  give 
him  a  curtsey  as  he  passed.  They  had  a  new  interest  in  him 
now  since  he  had  become  a  married  man,  though  they  had 
thought  him  very  stingy  not  to  give  something  for  them  to 
make  merry  with  at  his  bridal.  The  idea  had  never  occurred 
to  Macdonald  himself,  and  nobody  had  suggested  it  to  him. 
He  drew  rein  and  sprang  from  the  saddle  at  the  smith's  door, 
one  of  the  mare's  shoes  being  loose.  Donald  Macalpine,  the 
smith,  was  in  at  his  breakfast,  but  in  an  instant  he  was  out  to 
wait  upon  the  Laird,  while  Mary,  his  wife,  looked  at  him  over 
the  white  muslin  screen  at  the  window. 


60  SHEILA. 

4  Good -day,  smith.  Look  to  the  mare's  hind  foot,  will  you? 
A  stone  in  the  burn  tripped  her  up,  and  some  of  the  nails  are 
out.  Fine  morning  after  the  rain.' 

'  Ay,  sir,  sure  it  is,'  said  Donald. 

'  I  hope  the  Laird  is  weel,  and  his  Leddy,  too  ? ' 

'  Very  well,  thank  you.  Poor  weather  for  the  harvest. 
The  crofts  seem  in  a  sorry  condition,  Donald.' 

'Ay,'  said  Donald,  shaking  his  head  as  he  scraped  the 
mare's  shoe  with  his  knife.  '  The  Lord  has  a  queer  way  o* 
workin*.  It  seems  to  me  a  needless  wastry,  an'  a  sinfu',  though 
He  can  dae  nae  sin,  to  destroy  the  fruits  of  the  earth  after  they 
are  come  to  the  ear.* 

'The  sun  may  shine  yet,  Donald,'  said  the  Laird  cheerily. 
'  There  seems  to  be  bulk  enough.' 

'  Ay,  but  it's  as  green  as  leeks,'  was  Donald's  brief  comment. 
'  Wo,  beestie  1  stand  still.' 

Mora  was  growing  impatient  of  the  strange  touch  on  her 
dainty  limb,  and  it  required  all  the  smith's  strong  energy  to 
keep  her  quiet. 

'Anything  new  in  the  Fauld,  Donald?'  asked  the  Laird. 

'Naething,  but  that  Jenny  Menzies  has  gotten  Jock's  twa 
bairns  hame  from  Glesca,  an'  a  bonnie  ootcry  she's  makin'  about 
them.1 

'  What  has  become  of  Jock  ? ' 

'Deid;  an*  his  wife  an'  a'.  They're  nice  bits  o*  bairns.  The 
lassie's  a  wee  doo ;  the  laddie  has  a  wan'ert  look.  Malcolm 
and  Katie,  they  are  ca'd.' 

'  Two  more  scholars  for  Peter  Crerar,'  laughed  the  Laird. 
'Ye  hae  gotten  my  nephew  to  school  in  the  Fauld.' 

'  Ay,  sure,  an'  Peter  Crerar  himsel'  is  neither  to  haud  nor 
bind  ower  it,'  said  the  smith.  '  Weel,  he'll  get  a  guid  education 
frae  Peter.  He  has  a  held.' 

'  Well,  well,  it  will  do  the  lad  no  harm,  Donald.  Is  she  all 
right  now  ? '  said  the  Laird,  springing  to  his  saddle.  '  Thanks 
to  you ;  give  my  respects  to  Mary.' 

Donald,  with  his  hands  under  his  leather  upron,  watched 
the  Laird  ride  round  by  Rob  Macnaughton's  corner,  then 
slowly  sauntered  into  the  house,  which  was  pervaded  by  a 


THE  NETHER  MILLSTONE.  61 

fine  smell  of  toasted  oatcakes,  Mary  being  busy  with  her 
baking. 

'That  was  the  Laird?'  Mary  said,  her  sonsy  face  full  of 
interest 

'Ay,  it  was.  I  never  saw  the  Laird  mair  frank  an*  free, 
Mary  Macalpine,'  Donald  answered ;  '  I  canna  think  him  as 
bad  a  man  as  Angus  M'Bean  of  Auchloy  would  make  out. 
There's  a  kindness  in  his  eye  like  a  sun-blink  on  the  loch.  I'd 
a  mind  to  ask  him  was  it  his  wull  that  the  loch  fishin'  was 
ta'en  awa'  frae  us.  But  I'll  do  it  another  day,  Mary  Macalpine, 
as  sure  as  I  stand  here.' 

'Donald,  ye'll  not  meddle  wi'  it,  my  man,  or  we'll  have 
Angus  M'Bean  down  on  us,  an'  he's  an  ill  enemy.  Eh !  Katie 
Menzies,  my  lamb,  is  that  you?'  she  cried,  with  a  motherly 
smile  at  a  bonnie  wee  girlie,  with  yellow  hair  and  eyes  like  the 
forget-me-not,  who  looked  shyly  in  at  the  door. 

'Is  Malky  here?'  she  asked,  with  a  strong  west  country 
accent.  '  The  skule's  gaun  in,  an'  auntie's  awfu'  angry. 
Malky 's  no'  ready  to  gang.  He  got  pawmies  yesterday,  an' 
he'll  get  them  the  day,  for  the  maister's  an'  awfu'  crabbit 
man.' 

'Ay,  Malky  disna  like  the  maister.  Rin  ye  to  the  skule, 
Katie.  Gie  her  a  far],  Mary,  an'  let  her  awa','  said  the  smith 
kindly.  Til  look  for  Malky.  He'll  be  seekin'  his  lesson 
by  the  loch-side  or  on  *he  hill.' 

'  He's  gaen  gyte  wi'  Rob  Macnaughton's  sangs,'  said 
Mary,  as  she  gave  Katie  a  crisp  oatcake  and  a  pat  on  the 
cheek. 

The  smith  laughed,  and,  ^ghting  his  pipe,  stood  in  the  porch 
a  minute  watching  the  bairns  gathering  in  for  the  school.  His 
heart  warmed  to  them,  and  his  eyes  were  filled  with  a  fine  light 
of  soft  tenderness.  Mary  and  he  had  had  but  one  child,  who 
now  slept  in  the  burying-ground  at  Shian. 

He  did  not  need  to  go  far  to  seek  Malcolm,  the  truant.  He 
saw  him  away  up  the  hill  near  Atichloy,  a  solitary,  lonely  figure 
among  the  browsing  sheep.  The  bairn  was  a  strange  bairn, 
not  like  others.  He  loved  nothing  better  than  to  wander  by 
himself  among  the  hills  or  by  the  burns,  which  were  a  great 


62  SHEILA. 

and  wonderful  revelation  to  the  boy,  whose  eyes  till  now  had 
seen  nothing  but  paved  streets  and  big  stone  houses,  which 
seemed  to  touch  the  very  sky. 

He  was  a  thorn  in  the  flesh  to  hard,  grasping  Janet  Menzies, 
his  aunt,  who  looked  upon  the  bairns  as  a  heavy  burden,  and 
specially  prophesied  that  the  boy  would  never  come  to  any 
good. 


CHAPTER  VH. 


BAIRN  DATS. 

O  little  hearts !  that  throb  and  beat 

With  such  impatient,  feverish  heat — 

Such  limitless  and  strong  desires. 

LONGFELLOW. 

HERE  was  no  School  Board  in  Achnafauld,  and  the 
cottars  conducted  their  own  municipal  and  educa- 
tional matters  to  please  themselves.  There  was 
only  schooling  six  months  in  the  year,  from 
November  till  May,  the  children  being  required  on  the  land 
in  the  summer.  The  teacher,  Peter  Crerar,  the  son  of  a  small 
farmer  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river,  was  a  clever  young 
man,  quite  competent  for  his  duties,  and  many  a  good  scholar 
was  turned  out  of  that  primitive  schoolroom  by  the  edge  of  the 
Achnafauld  burn.  For  his  six  months'  work,  Peter  Crerar 
received  the  sum  of  £6 ;  but  his  food  was  found,  as  he  obtained 
his  meals  in  rotation  at  the  house  of  each  pupil's  parents.  His 
own  home  was  so  near  at  hand,  he  had  his  lodging  there, 
though,  had  he  been  from  a  distance,  bed  would  have  been 
found  as  well  as  board.  It  was  a  primitive  arrangement,  but 
all  parties  were  satisfied,  and  the  foundation  of  a  good,  solid 
education  was  laid  in  these  young  minds  at  a  very  nominal 
cost. 

Such   was   the  academy  to  which,  in  a  fit  of  spleen,  Mrs. 


64  SHEILA. 

Ellen  Macleod  had  elected  to  send  her  son.  There  was  a  school 
in  Amulree  of  a  more  ambitious  type,  but  she  had  chosen 
Achnafauld  because  it  was  on  Dalmore  lands,  and  also  because 
the  factor's  son,  young  Angus  M'Bean,  went  to  it.  Not  that 
the  two  boys  had  ever  been  friendly,  the  difference  in  their 
dispositions  forbade  it ;  but,  of  course,  Ellen  Macleod  knew 
nothing  of  this.  She  had  a  great  respect  for  Dalmore's  factor, 
and  though  she  was  a  shrewd  woman  in  most  things,  she  could 
not  see  through  Angus  M'Bean.  He  was  a  hypocrite  and  a 
time-server,  a  man  who  would  spare  no  effort  to  advance  his 
own  selfish  and  avaricious  ends.  He  had  held  the  factorship 
for  five  years,  and  had  commended  himself  to  the  Laird  by  his 
assiduous  attention  to  his  interests.  Never  had  there  been  less 
trouble  on  Dalraore  and  Findowie ;  never  had  the  rents  been 
so  punctually  paid.  Nevertheless,  Angus  M'Bean  was  slowly 
undermining  the  relations  betwixt  the  cottars  and  the  Laird, 
and  discontent  was  smouldering  hotly  in  Achnafauld. 

Fergus  Macleod  had  enjoyed  his  study  under  Mr.  Macfarlane 
at  the  manse  of  Amulree,  and  he  thought  it  a  strange  and  new 
thing  that  his  mother  should  send  him  to  Peter  Crerar's  school. 
As  the  smith  stood  in  the  doorway  that  morning,  he  saw  the 
tall,  handsome  lad,  in  his  dark  Macdonald  kilt,  coming  up  the 
burn-side,  and  he  shook  his  head. 

*  It's  hard  on  the  laddie,  ay  is  it ;  the  Fauld  schoolin's  no'  for 
him,'  said  Donald  to  himself ;  for  the  expression  on  the  boy's 
face  struck  him.      His   head   was   down,  and   though  he  was 
walking   quickly,   there   was  a  lack  of  energy  and  buoyancy 
about  his  whole  demeanour.     The  smith,  by  reason  of  his  fine 
instincts,  was  quick  to  note  the  significance  of  expression  and 
attitude  in  both  old  and  young.     He  saw  at  once  that  young 
Fergus  Macleod  was  under  a  shadow,  and  his  heart  was  full 
of  sympathy  for  him.     Under  pretence  of   going  to  look  for 
Malcolm,  he  sauntered  through  the  clachan,  and  met  Fergus  at 
the  stepping  stones. 

*  A  fine  mornin',  sir,'  he  said,  touching  his  bonnet  as  respect- 
fully as  if  he  had  been  speaking  to  the  Laird. 

'Ay,  Donald,  a  fine  morning,'  answered  Fergus,  with  a 
sudden  flash  of  a  smile,  like  sunshine. 


BAIRN  DA  YS.  65 

4  Ye  are  for  the  school,  I  see?'  said  Donald.  '  How  d'ye  like 
in-bye  ?  Does  Peter  Crerar  come  up  to  Mister  Macfarlane  ?  ' 

Fergus  gave  his  bag  a  push  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  slight, 
tremulous  smile  crossed  his  face. 

'I  like  Mr.  Crerar  very  well,  Donald,  but  I  don't  like  the 
school  as  well  as  the  manse.' 

'  Never  mind,  lad ;  it's  a  deescipline.  The  Lord  has  His  ain 
ways  o'  workin',  an'  guid  comes  oot  o'  evil.  Ye'll  be  a  daur  on 
oor  slips  o'  laddies ;  Peter  Crerar  has  his  ain  to  dae  wi'  them.' 

'  He  taws  plenty,  Donald.  There's  Malcolm  Menzies  on  the 
hill  near  Auchloy.  Is  he  not  coming  to  school  to-day  ? ' 

'  Dear  only  kens.  The  laddie's  gane  wud  sin'  he  cam'  frae 
Glesca.  I  was  pitten'  a  shae  on  yer  uncle's  meer  this  mornin', 
Maister  Fergus.' 

'  Isn't  she  a  beauty,  Donald  ? '  quoth  the  lad,  his  eye  kind- 
ling with  enthusiasm.  '  When  I'm  a  man  I'll  have  a  mare 
like  Mora.' 

'  Ay,  I  houp  sae ;  mony  o'  them,  sir,'  said  Donald  fervently, 
for  Fergus  was  a  prime  favourite  of  his.  'There's  the  wee 
M'Bean  comin'  by  Dugal  Bain's.  He's  late.' 

1  So  am  I.  Mr.  Crerar  never  taws  M'Bean  nor  me,  and  it 
isn't  fair,  for  we  need  it  as  bad  as  the  rest,'  said  Fergus,  cross- 
ing the  burn  at  a  bound. 

4  He  wadna  like  to  lick  you,  Maister  Fergus,  and  the  wee 
M'Bean  he  daurna.  Though  I  think  wi'  you,  Peter  shouldna 
mak'  flesh  o1  ane  and  fish  o'  anither.' 

Fergus  laughed  as  he  ran  off,  though  he  did  not  fully  under- 
stand Donald's  expression.  He  came  up  with  the  factor's  son 
at  the  school  door,  but  no  greeting  passed  between  them. 
Angus  M'Bean,  indeed,  scowled  at  Fergus  from  under  his 
heavy  brows,  but  Fergus  did  not  change  his  serene  expression. 

'  We're  late,  Angus,'  he  said  cheerily,  for  though  he  had 
given  him  a  thrashing  he  deserved,  he  was  not  one  to  keep  up 
spite. 

But  Angus  only  scowled  the  deeper.      He  was  what  country 

folk  call  an  '  ill-kindet  loon,1  and   there  was   nothing  in    his 

appearance  to  win  approbation.     He  was  a  little,  squat  fellow, 

with  a  fat,  freckled  face,  and  a  shock  of  red  hair.      '  Puddin' 

5 


66  SHEILA. 

M'Bean,'  he  was  irreverently  called  among  the  youngsters  of 
the  Fauld,  who  recognised  no  class  distinction,  and  hated  him 
with  a  cordial  hatred. 

It  suited  the  factor  to  send  his  boy  for  the  winter  months  to 
the  Fauld  school,  as  it  gave  him  ground  for  posing  as  a 
humble,  unassuming  man  before  the  Laird,  and  he  pretended 
to  have  the  love  of  a  brother  and  the  interest  of  a  true  friend 
in  his  old  neighbours.  But  they  knew  better. 

On  the  whole,  Fergus  Macleod  did  not  greatly  dislike  the 
school,  though,  brought  up  as  he  had  been,  it  was  certainly  a 
change  for  him  to  sit  side  by  side  with  the  rough  cottar  lads,  who 
stared  at  his  kilt,  and  made  remarks  to  each  other  in  Gaelic,  which 
he  only  partially  understood.  Peter  Crerar,  out  of  his  desire  to 
do  honour  to  the  Laird's  nephew,  set  up  a  small  form  near  his 
desk,  and  put  Fergus  on  it,  alongside  Angus  M'Bean ;  but  the 
lad,  young  though  he  was,  felt  that  no  such  distinction  ought  to 
be  made,  and  begged  that  he  might  be  allowed  to  sit  among  the 
rest.  He  was  not  any  further  forward  than  the  bigger  boys, 
for  he  was  not  much  inclined,  as  yet  at  least,  for  study,  and 
Mr.  Macfarlane  had  not  pushed  him.  Angus  M'Bean  was,  no 
doubt,  the  sharpest  boy  in  the  school.  In  spite  of  the  dour, 
slow,  stupid  look,  his  mental  faculties  were  keen  enough,  and 
he  speedily  left  his  compeers  behind.  He  had  a  profound 
contempt  for  the  clachan  lads,  and  showed  it  in  every  possible 
way  ;  and  though  they  all  hated  him,  he  had  never  been  laid  a 
hand  on  till  Fergus  Macleod  thrashed  him.  He  caught  him 
one  day  after  he  had  pushed  wee  Katie  Menzies  from  the 
stepping-stones  into  the  burn,  and  nearly  put  her  into  a  fit 
with  fright.  These  were  the  sorts  of  things  that  amused  the 
factor's  son,  so  it  may  be  guessed  that  there  was  not  much  love 
lost  between  Fergus  and  him. 

The  Lord's  Prayer  was  over,  and  all  the  slates  out  that 
morning,  when  the  door  was  quickly  opened,  and  a  pale-faced 
lad,  with  large,  melancholy  eyes,  came  creeping  into  the  room. 
It  was  Malcolm  Menzies,  who  had  returned  unwillingly  from 
his  wanderings.  He  did  not  like  the  irksome  routine  of  the 
school,  and  Peter  Crerar,  having  no  patience  with  the  slow, 
shrinking,  sensitive  boy,  who  never  had  his  lessons  ready,  was 


BAIRN  DA  YS.  67 

needlessly  hard  upon  him.  No  doubt,  the  strong,  lazy  urchins 
of  Achnafauld  needed  the  wholesome  discipline  of  the  tawse, 
and  their  brown  paws  could  stand  a  very  honest  number  of 
pawinies;  but  it  was  different  with  Malcolm  Menzies.  Wee 
Katie,  who  had  been  anxiously  watching  for  her  brother,  made 
room  on  the  form  for  him,  and  the  boy  slipped  into  his  seat 
with  a  look  of  anxious  fear.  He  was  not  allowed  to  sit  on  the 
front  form  with  the  big  boys,  who  laughed  at  him,  the  '  toon's 
laddie,'  as  they  called  him,  for  being  so  backward  and  stupid  at 
his  lessons.  The  master  was  busy  in  the  cupboard  in  the  wall 
behind  his  desk,  and  as  his  back  was  to  the  scholars,  he  did 
not  see  Malcolm  enter.  But  this  was  an  opportunity  for  show- 
ing a  mean  revenge  on  the  Menzies,  which  Puddin*  M'Bean  did 
not  intend  to  let  slip.  So,  when  the  master  turned  round  and 
asked  what  the  noise  was,  he  was  told  that  it  was  Malcolm 
Menzies  coming  in  late.  Now  the  master  had  had  a  good  deal 
of  trouble  with  Malcolm  Menzies,  who  seemed  to  have  no  sense 
of  the  passage  of  time,  and  would  come  into  the  school  at  any 
time  of  the  day.  Only  three  days  before  he  had  been  punished 
for  the  same  offence,  and  Peter  Crerar,  being  an  ordinary,  hot- 
headed young  man,  who  thought  the  tawse  the  only  way  of 
establishing  law  and  order  in  the  school,  made  up  his  mind  he 
would  stand  it  no  longer. 

'  Malcolm  Menzies,  come  up  ! '  he  said,  in  that  quiet  way  he 
was  wont  to  assume  in  his  sterner  moods. 

Poor  Malcolm  trembled  and  grew  paler,  if  that  were  possible, 
and  wee  Katie  began  to  cry  quietly,  with  her  apron  to  her  eyes. 
The  boys,  who  enjoyed,  as  is  the  manner  of  their  kind,  '  a 
lickin"  given  to  another,  sat  up  expectantly,  and  Puddin' 
M'Bean  grinned  consequentially  behind  his  slate. 

'  You're  a  mean  sneak,  Angus  M'Bean !  and  I'll  give  it  you  at 
leave,'  whispered  Fergus  savagely ;  for  his  hot  Macdonald  blood 
sprang  up  at  the  cowardly  tell-tale. 

'  I'll  tell  the  maister  on  you  too,  if  you  don't  take  care,'  said 
Angus  scowlingly.  He  was  very  brave  when  he  was  safely  out 
of  danger's  way. 

Meanwhile,  Malcolm  Menzies,  positively  shivering  with  fear, 
came  very,  very  slowly  up  between  the  forms  to  the  master's  desk 


68  SHEILA. 

'  Where  have  you  been,  eh  ? '  asked  Peter  Crerar,  in  a  loud, 
peremptory  voice. 

'  Up  by  Auchloy.  I  forgot,  sir ;  an'  oh,  dinna  lick  me,  an1 
I'll  never  dae't  again  1 '  said  the  lad  piteously,  but  with  dry 
eyes.  Even  after  the  worst  licking  he  had  never  been  seen  to 
cry,  but  he  brooded  over  things,  and  suffered  often  a  thousand 
times  more  than  the  rest  had  any  idea  of.  The  smith  partially 
understood  him,  but  had  refrained  from  giving  Peter  Crerar 
any  instructions  about  him,  thinking  that  the  ordinary  drilling 
at  school  might  sharpen  him  up  a  bit,  and  knock  the  sensitive 
shrinking  out  of  him. 

'  Just  so,'  said  the  master  grimly.     '  Hold  out  your  hand.' 

The  boy  did  so  nervously,  but  put  it  quickly  behind  his  back 
before  the  stroke  fell.  Then  the  master  lost  his  temper,  and 
fell  upon  him,  hitting  him  on  the  shoulders  and  on  the  bare 
calves  of  his  legs  without  mercy,  but  the  boy  never  uttered  a 
sound.  Fergus  Macleod  could  not  keep  his  eyes  away  from 
the  scene,  but  it  made  him  really  sick,  and  at  last  he  could 
stand  it  no  longer,  but  sprang  from  his  seat. 

'Oh,  sir,  don't!  Stop,  sirl  Hit^  me.  I'm  abler  than 
Malcolm  I '  he  cried,  and  held  out  his  brave  right  hand  at  once. 

Then  Peter  Crerar  put  up  his  tawse,  told  Malcolm  angrily 
to  go  back  to  his  seat,  and  in  his  wrath  actually  bade  the 
Laird's  nephew  hold  his  tongue.  But  it  stopped  the  '  licking,' 
at  which  Puddin'  M'Bean  was  grievously  disappointed.  Nothing 
pleased  him  better  than  the  sight  of  another  boy  getting  a 
good  taste  of  the  tawse.  The  pity  was  he  should  have  so  little 
experience  of  it  himself.  Malcolm  Menzies  crept  back  slowly 
to  his  seat,  and  sat  down  with  a  queer  dazed  look  on  his  face. 
Wee  Katie  slipped  her  hand  into  his,  and  looked  up  into  his 
face,  her  blue  eyes  shining  with  childish  sympathy. 

*  Dinna  greet  ony  mair,  Malky,'  she  whispered ;  but  Malcolm 
drew  himself  away  from  her  touch,  and  when  he  saw  the 
master  in  the  press  again,  he  rose  very  quietly  and  went  out 
of  the  door  like  a  shot,  and  that  was  the  last  time  Malcolm 
Menzies  ever  sat  upon  a  school  form.  He  ran  all  his  might 
into  the  smiddy,  where  Donald,  in  his  leisurely  fashion,  was 
preparing  for  his  work. 


BAIRM  DA  VS.  69 

'Weel,  lad,  what  is't?'  he  asked  kindly,  when  Malcolm's 
shadow  darkened  the  doorway. 

'  Oh,  Donald,  ask  my  auntie  no'  to  let  me  to  the  sphule  1 ' 
said  the  lad,  in  a  solemn,  weary  voice.  '  I  canna  go  back  to  the 
schule.' 

'  What  way  can  you  an'  Peter  Crerar  no'  agree  ?  Bless  me  ! 
what's  the  maitter  wi*  yer  legs  ? ' 

'He  did  it,'  said  the  lad,  with  swelling  bosom.  'Oh,  Donald, 
let  me  work  in  the  smiddy  or  onything,  but  dinna  let  her  send 
me  to  the  schule.  I  winna  gang.' 

'  Weel,  if  ye  winna  gang,  yc  winna,  I  suppose.  Gae  awa'  to 
the  peats,  Malcolm,  an'  help  to  load  the  cairt,  or  I  speak  to  yer 
auntie,'  said  the  good-natured  smith,  who  saw  that  the  boy  was 
fairly  roused.  He  also  feared  that  if  practical  Mary  saw  him  she 
would  think  it  her  duty  to  send  him  back  instantly  to  the  school. 

So  Malcolm,  with  a  look  of  inexpressible  relief,  slipped 
quietly  away  round  the  smithy  end,  and  away  up  to  the  road. 
He  had  absolute  faith  in  Donald  Macalpine,  and  did  not  fear 
what  the  end  would  be.  Before  leave-time  it  was  noticeable 
that  Puddin'  M'Bean  began-  to  grow  uneasy  in  his  seat ;  and 
some  of  the  lads  who  had  overheard  Fergus  Macleod's  remark, 
nudged  each  other  in  delightful  anticipation  of  another  fight. 
But  Puddin'  circumvented  them  by  remaining  in  the  school  all 
leave-time,  hoping  that  by  the  afternoon  Fergus's  ire  would 
have  cooled.  He  had  a  very  vivid  recollection  of  what  he  had 
received  at  the  same  hands  for  knocking  wee  Katie  into  the 
burn,  and  had  no  wish  to  repeat  the  dose. 

When  the  school  'scaled,'  Puddin'  made  off;  but  Fergus 
was  after  him  like  a  shot,  and  overtook  him  on  the  path  before 
he  had  got  up  to  the  Auchloy  road. 

'  Now  then,'  said  Fergus,  laying  down  his  books,  and  looking 
fixedly  at  the  scowling,  fat  face  of  the  cowardly  boy,  '  what  did 
you  mean  by  telling  on  Malcolm  Menzies?  Didn't  I  tell  you 
that  if  you  meddled  with  any  of  the  Meuzies  again,  I'd — I'd 
do  for  you?' 

4  You'd — you'd  better !  I'll  tell  my  father  if  you  touch  me, 
said  Angus  dourly,  shaking  in  his  shoes,  though  he  was  twc 
years  older,  and  much  more  stoutly  built,  than  Fergus. 


70  SHEILA. 

'  When  you're  telling,  be  sure  and  tell  what  you  were  licked  for, 
then,'  said  Fergus,  giving  him  a  thump  between  the  shoulders. 

By  this  time  the  whole  school,  like  a  hive  of  bees,  were 
flocking  up  the  path.  Seeing  he  was  sure  to  get  the  worst 
of  it,  Puddin'  began  to  cry,  which  so  exasperated  Fergus 
Macleod  that  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment  he  gave  him  a 
good  push,  which  shoved  him  over  the  bank  into  the  burn. 
The  recent  rain  had  brought  it  down  a  little  in  flood,  and  the 
pools  were  deep  and  the  current  strong.  But  Angus  managed 
to  scramble  up  the  bank,  and  then  what  a  shout  of  laughter 
arose  from  the  bairns  1  The  whole  scene  was  so  comical,  that, 
though  he  was  sorry  for  M'Bean's  plight,  Fergus  could  not  help 
joining  heartily  in  the  laugh.  Then  Puddin',  fairly  roused, 
swore  at  Fergus,  and  ran  off  as  fast  as  his  legs  would  carry 
him  to  Auchloy.  It  was  not  far.  About  half  a  mile  up  the 
loch  there  was  a  fine  sheltering  clump  of  trees,  in  the  midst  of 
which  stood  Auchloy,  the  snug  domicile  of  Macdonald's  factor. 
The  house,  one  of  the  shooting  lodges,  had  recently  been 
repaired  and  added  to,  and  presented  a  very  roomy,  substantial 
appearance.  There  was  a  commodious  steading  at  the  back, 
and  a  well-filled  stackyard,  for  Angus  M'Bean  held  a  large 
farm  on  the  estate,  and  was  always  adding  bit  by  bit  to  it.  He 
had  three  children,  Angus  being  the  eldest,  and  then  two  little 
girls.  Mrs.  M'Bean,  looking  out  of  the  dining-room  window, 
saw  the  boy  coming  up  the  little  avenue,  and  wondered  at  his 
dejected  appearance.  She  came  to  the  door  to  see  what  was 
the  matter.  When  she  saw  him  all  wet,  she  threw  up  her 
hands  in  amazement. 

'  Mercy  me,  laddie  1  where  ha'e  ye  been  ?  Ha'e  ye  fau'n 
into  the  loch  ? ' 

In  spite  of  her  iusband's  ambition  to  be  a  gentleman,  and 
her  own  desire  to  be  a  fine  lady,  Mrs.  M'Bean  could  never 
learn  to  talk  'English,'  greatly  to  her  husband's  disgust.  She 
was  a  south  country  woman,  and  would  have  been  a  fine, 
good-natured,  harmless  body  if  she  had  been  let  alone.  But 
her  efforts  to  seem  other  than  she  was,  and  to  keep  up  her 
husband's  position  and  ambition,  fretted  her  temper,  and  made 
her  miserably  unhappy.  In  spite  of  her  big  house,  her  fine 


BAIRN  DAYS.  71 

clothes,  and  her  horse  and  trap,  she  secretly  often  regretted  the 
days  when  she  had  only  been  a  cottar's  wife  in  Achnafauld. 

At  sight  of  his  mother,  Angus  instantly  began  to  blubber ; 
and  when  he  was  drawn  into  the  dining-room,  where  his  father 
was,  he  managed  to  tell  a  beautiful  story,  which  fixed  all  the 
blame  on  Fergus  Macleod,  and  converted  him  into  a  hero. 

'This  is  the  second  time  Fergus  Macleod  has  ill-used  you,' 
said  the  factor  angrily.  'But  never  mind,  Angus,  lad,'  he 
added,  stroking  his  stubbly  red  beard  more  complacently.  '  Tin- 
upsetting  monkey!  His  wings  are  clipped  already,  but  we'l! 
manage  to  crush  him  yet.' 


-ts* 


CHAPTER  VHL 


AMONO  THE   FAULD   FOLK. 


80  these  young  hearts  . 
Wandered  at  wilL 


TENNTSOH. 


WISH  you'd  hold  your  tongue,  Sheila  Murray !  you're 
frightening  the  fish,  and  they  won't  bite.  Lie 
down,  Colin.' 

'I'm  tired  seeing  you  fish.  You  can't  catch 
anything,'  said  Sheila,  with  the  delicious  candour  of  childhood. 
'  Lay  down  your  rod,  and  let  us  play.  Colin  can't  keep  still, 
Fergus/ 

*  You're  just  a  bother,  Sheila,'  said  Fergus,  as  he  began  to 
wind  up  his  reel,  for  to  him  Sheila's  word  was  law.  They 
were  great  friends  —  inseparable  companions,  indeed  —  these 
two,  though  Fergus  Macleod  had  never  once  crossed  the 
threshold  of  Dalmore  since  his  uncle's  wife  came  home.  Ellen 
Macleod  had  prevented  him  visiting  the  house,  but  she  had  laid 
no  embargo  on  his  actions  outside,  and  had  not  the  remotest 
idea  of  the  long  hours  her  boy  and  'that  woman's  child'  spent 
together.  The  Girron  Brig  was  their  trysting-place,  and  Colin 
their  companion  and  protector,  and  the  two  bairns  became 
almost  necessary  to  each  other's  existence.  Those  long  summer 
days  spent  among  the  hills  and  by  the  burn-side  with  Fergus 
were  dreams  of  delight  to  Sheila  Murray,  who  had  been 


AMONG  THE  FAULD  FOLK.  73 

condemned  to  walk  out  by  the  Tay  with  a  prim  nursemaid, 
or  play  in  solitary  state  in  the  little  garden  surrounding  the 
cottage  at  Birnam.  These  days  were  scarcely  a  memory  to 
the  child.  She  never  recalled  them.  She  was  boundlessly 
happy  at  Dalmore,  and  all  the  natural  sunshine  of  her  nature 
had  freest  vent.  She  was  lull  of  tricks,  and  brimming  with 
laughter.  There  was  no  mischief  done  at  Dalmore  in  which 
she  was  not  concerned,  and  she  was  just  adored  in  the  house. 
The  servants  who  had  served  under  Ellen  Macleod's  grim  rule 
drew  many  a  comparison,  and  blessed  the  day  the  Laird 
had  brought  home  his  gentle  wife.  She  was  not  strong ;  she 
had  not  been  many  times  at  the  foot  of  Crom  Creagh  since  she 
came  home,  but  she  was  serenely,  boundlessly  happy.  What- 
ever her  husband  was  to  others,  he  was  full  of  care  and 
tenderness  for  her  and  for  Sheila.  She  did  not  trouble  her 
head  about  the  child,  but  allowed  her  to  run  wild  among  the 
heather,  and  watched  her  bonnie  face  and  her  bare  round  arms 
taking  on  the  sun-dye  with  undisturbed  content,  knowing  what 
a  stock  of  health  she  was  laying  in  for  the  days  when  study  and 
care  would  demand  her  attention. 

'You  don't  bother  your  head  much  about  Sheila,  Edith,' 
said  Macdonald  one  day.  '  Do  you  know  where  I  saw  her  and 
the  boy  the  other  afternoon  in  the  pouring  rain  ? ' 

•No;  where?' 

'In  the  middle  of  the  peat  bog  at  Dalreoch.  Fergus  is 
learning  botany  from  no  less  a  person  than  Rob  Macnaughton 
in  the  Fauld,  and  he  trails  poor  Sheila  everywhere  with  him.' 

'  She  is  just  as  willing  to  be  trailed,'  laughed  Edith.  '  It  is 
not  among  the  heather,  or  even  in  wet  peat  bogs,  any  harm  will 
come  to  Sheila,  Graham.  As  long  as  she  is  a  child  she  is  safe.' 

'I  shouldn't  wonder,  now,  Edith,  if  the  bairns  themselves 
settle  the  vexed  question  about  Dalmore,'  laughed  the  Laird ; 
but  Edith  only  smiled.  She  had  no  wish  to  anticipate  the 
cares  which  encompass  every  mother's  heart  when  she  has  a 
daughter  to  settle  in  life.  So  the  bairns  were  allowed  to  wander 
side  by  side,  or  hand  in  hand,  by  mountain,  moor,  and  loch, 
and  that  summer  Sheila  was  filled  with  a  wealth  of  country 
lore.  She  knew  the  nest  of  the  whaup  and  the  peesweep,  the 


74  SHEILA. 

haunt  of  the  fox  and  the  red  deer,  and  the  name  of  every  wild 
flower  which  blew.  That  most  perfect  companionship  between 
Fergus  and  herself  laid  the  foundation  of  a  deep  affection  which 
neither  time  nor  circumstance  could  ever  change,  though  it  was 
destined  to  be  rudely  shaken  by  the  vicissitudes  of  life. 

'  Look,  Sheila,'  said  Fergus,  laying  his  rod  on  the  grass,  and 
picking  the  leaf  of  a  green  plant  from  the  marshy  edge  of  the 
burn ;  '  these  leaves  eat  flies.' 

'  I  don't  believe  it,'  said  Sheila  promptly.  *  How  can  a  leaf 
eat  anything  ?  it  has  no  mouth.' 

'Bob  Macnaughton  showed  me  it;  when  the  fly  gets  on  the 
plant,  it  folds  all  its  leaves  over  it  and  squeezes  it  dead.' 

'Oh,  Fergus  Macleod!  you  horrid,  cruel  boy,  to  tell  such 
stories ! '  said  Sheila  reprovingly.  '  Girn  at  him,  Colin.  Isn't  he 
a  naughty  boy  ? ' 

'  I'd  like  to  see  Colin  Macdonald  girn  at  me,  Sheila  Murray. 
I'd  girn  him,'  said  Fergus,  as  he  began  to  take  his  rod  to  pieces. 
'  I  wish  you  were  a  boy,  Sheila.' 

'  What  for  ? ' 

'Because  you'd  like  to  fish,  and  chase  hares,  and  all  that 
kind  of  things.  Girls  always  want  to  sit  quiet,  don't  they  ? ' 

'  I  don't.  If  you  don't  want  me,  you  can  go  away  home, 
Fergus  Macleod,'  said  Sheila  quickly.  '  I  can  play  by  myself 
with  Colin.' 

'  No,  you  can't,  or  why  do  you  always  watch  for  me  when  I 
fish  in  the  Girron?  Besides,  I  never  said  I  didn't  like  you. 
You  aren't  bad  at  all  for  a  girl,'  said  Fergus  graciously.  '  I 
say,  do  you  think  you  could  walk  to  the  Fauld  ? ' 

'  Of  course  I  could,'  said  Sheila  promptly. 

'  Well,  come  on ;  I  want  to  speak  to  Rob  Macnaughton  about 
something  very  special,  and  if  you  like  I'll  make  him  tell  you 
about  the  mist -wraiths  up  Glenquaich.  He's  seen  them. 
Would  you  be  frightened,  Sheila?' 

'  No,  I  wouldn't,'  said  Sheila ;  but  her  eyes  opened  wide  with 
something  like  apprehension.  '  What's  mist- wraiths  ? ' 

4  Things  that  live  in  the  mountains,'  answered  Fergus  vaguely. 
'  I'm  not  very  sure  myself,  because,  you  see,  I  never  saw  them. 
Hob'll  tell  you  all  about  them,  and  we  can  go  to  the  smith's 


AMONG  THE  FAULD  FOLK.  75 

as  well.  Mary  will  give  you  some  cakes  and  milk.  Then  you 
will  see  wee  Katie  Menzies  that  I've  told  you  about  so  often. 
She's  always  at  the  smith's.' 

*  Is  she  nicer  than  me  ? '  asked  Sheila  soberly. 

1  Sometimes,'  answered  Fergus,  rather  absently  ;  for  they  had 
crossed  over  the  brig,  and  he  was  looking  away  over  at  Shounen, 
with  a  look  of  pain  in  his  eyes  which  one  so  young  ought  not 
to  have  known. 

'I  don't  think  you're  nice,  anyway,  Fergus,'  said  Sheila,  in 
rather  an  aggrieved  voice,  as  they  turned  up  the  road  to  the 
Fauld.  '  You  just  fished  and  fished,  and  never  spoke  at  all.' 

4 1  was  thinking,  Sheila,  said  Fergus ;  and  he  brushed  his 
hand  over  his  eyes  as  he  looked  to  the  long,  low,  white-washed 
kirk  of  Amulree.  '  Sheila,  what  would  you  think  if  some  day, 
when  you  were  a  big  woman,  you  went  into  the  kirk  there,  and 
Sandy  M'Tavish  brought  up  the  Bible,  and  then  opened  the 
vestry  door,  and  let  in  a  new  minister,  not  Mr.  Macfarlane,  and 
when  you  looked  up  it  was  me  ? ' 

'  You  I*  Sheila  stared  with  all  her  might,  and  then  laughed 
right  out.  '  Oh,  that  would  be  funny  I ' 

'  It  might  be  funny  for  you,  but  it  wouldn't  be  very  funny  for 
me,'  said  Fergus  gloomily.  '  My  mother  says  that  in  Septem- 
ber, just  when  Uncle  Graham  and  them  are  out  on  the  hills  all 
day,  I  have  to  go  to  Perth  to  the  school,  and  learn  to  be  a 
minister.' 

' Oh,  Fergus,  what  for? ' 

*  She  says,  Sheila,  that  I  must  learn  to  do  something,   for  I 
have  no  money;  and  that  I  must  be  a  minister,  because  father 
was  one,  and  it  will  be  the  best  thing  for  me.' 

There  was  a  catch  in  the  boy's  voice  as  he  spoke,  and  Sheila's 
sweet  eyes  filled  with  tears  of  sympathy,  though  she  only  parti- 
ally understood  it  alL 

'  I'd  rather  dig  peats  all  day,  or  be  a  gamekeeper  like  Lachlan 
Macrae,  or  break  stones  on  the  road,  than  go  to  be  a  minister, 
Sheila.  I  hate  books  and  going  to  school.' 

'  But,  Fergus,  Uncle  Graham  has  lots  and  lots  of  money.  I'll 
ask  him  to  give  you  money,  and  not  let  you  go  to  be  a  minister, 
if  you  don't  like  it,'  said  Sheila  confidently. 


76  SHEILA. 

Fergus  smiled  sadly,  remembering  with  what  hot,  stinging, 
unsparing  words  his  mother  had  denounced  Aunt  Edith  and  her 
little  girl,  and  how  she  had  said  they  had  stolen  his  birthright 
from  him.  She  had  said  a  great  deal — more,  indeed,  than  Fergus 
understood — but  that  point  was  quite  plain  to  him.  And  yet  it 
made  no  difference  in  his  feeling  to  Sheila,  who  had  become  as 
necessary  to  his  existence  as  light  and  sunshine  was  to  Aunt 
Edith,  who  was  enshrined  like  a  saint  in  his  boyish  heart. 
Whatever  his  mother  might  say,  he  would  never  change  towards 
them  nor  blame  them  in  the  least. 

They  walked  a  little  way  in  silqnce,  until,  ascending  one  of 
the  gentle  elevations  in  the  road,  they  saw  Achnafauld  and  the 
silvery  loch  beyond  shimmering  in  the  radiance  of  the  summer 
sun.  A  mystic,  exquisite  purple  glow  lay  on  the  encircling 
hills ;  a  long,  dry,  bright  summer  had  ripened  the  heather,  and 
made  it  bloom  before  its  time. 

'  Oh,  Fergus,'  said  Sheila,  and  she  slipped  her  hand  in  his, 
'  isn't  it  sunny  and  nice  ?  Never  mind.  Perhaps  your  mother 
won't  send  you  to  be  a  minister  yet.' 

Fergus  smiled.  The  beautiful  scene  spread  before  his  eyes, 
in  all  its  grand  solitude  and  peace,  had  its  effect  upon  him,  and 
soothed  his  vexed  spirit. 

'  Yonder's  a  gig  coming  out  of  Auchloy,  Sheila,'  he  said,  point- 
ing with  his  rod  to  the  clump  of  trees  hiding  the  factor's 
residence.  '  I  see  Puddin'  M'Bean  in  it.' 

'  Why  do  .they  call  him  Puddin'  ?  '  asked  Sheila ;  and  Fergus 
laughed  at  her  curious  pronouncing  of  the  word.  Sheila  had  a 
•pure  English  accent  yet,  though  she  had  picked  up  a  few  High- 
land words  in  her  intercourse  with  the  servants  and  with 
Fergus. 

4  Because  he  is  so  fat.  His  face  is  like  a  bannock  all  dabbed  over 
with  little  holes,  like  Mary  M'Glashan's  scones,'  said  Fergus,  with 
more  force  than  elegance  of  diction ;  and  Sheila  only  laughed. 

Mr.  M'Bean  drove  a  high-stepping  horse,  and  the  light  gig 
came  rolling  over  the  rough  road  at  a  splendid  pace. 

'  Here's  Lady  Macleod's  boy  and  the  little  girl  from  Dalmore, 
mistress,'  said  the  factor  to  his  wife,  who  was  on  the  back  of  the 
gig.  '  Take  a  good  look  at  her.' 


AMONG  THE  FAULD  FOLK,  77 

Which  Mrs.  M'Bean  certainly  did,  after  the  gig  had  passed 
the  children,  and  the  factor  had  duly  saluted  them. 

'  She's  a  dainty  wee  lass,  Angus.  The  bairns  are  very 
friendly-like,'  was  her  comment. 

'  Ay,  that'll  do  i'  the  meantime,'  said  the  factor  significantly. 
'  Dalmore'll  maybe  come  between  them  some  day.' 

4 1  don't  like  Puddin'  M'Bean  very  much  ;  do  you,  Fergus  ?  ' 
asked  Sheila,  who,  having  been  greatly  interested  in  her  com- 
panion's account  of  his  exploits  at  the  school,  had  been  very 
anxious  to  see  him. 

*  I  like  him  1  I'd  like  to  put  him  in  the  burn  every  day  till 
he  was  all  washed  away,'  said  Fergus,  who  was  addicted  to  the 
use  of  strong  language,  and  had  grown  very  combative  of  late. 
In  fact,  home  influences  were  souring  the  sweet  temper  of  the 
boy.  Ellen  Macleod  had  really  no  idea  of  the  harm  she  was 
doing,  and  there  was  nobody  honest  enough  or  courageous 
enough  to  tell  her.  Macdonald,  after  that  one  futile  morning 
call,  had  indeed  let  her  severely  alone,  but  whenever  he  had 
opportunity  he  heaped  kind  words  and  gifts  on  the  boy,  for  his 
heart  was  sore  for  him. 

Hand  in  hand  the  pair  passed  on,  and  turned  down  the  first 
beaten  path  into  Achnafauld.  Fergus  chose  this  way  because  he 
wanted  to  show  Sheila  the  pool  in  the  burn  where  Puddin' 
M'Bean  had  got  his  'dookin';'  and  there  he  had  to  help  her 
over  the  stepping-stones,  which  were  nearly  dry  with  the  long 
drought.  It  was  past  six  o'clock,  and  the  busy  clang  of  the  anvil 
was  at  rest  and  the  smithy  empty.  Fergus  hoped  Donald  would 
have  his  supper,  and  that  he  would  be  smoking  by  the  side  of 
the  peat  fire,  for  it  was  then,  when  his  own  pipe  smoke  went 
curling  up  in  beautiful  unison  with  the  peat  reek,  that  Donald 
was  apt  to  glide  into  his  most  talkative  and  delightful  moods. 

In  all  her  wanderings  with  Fergus  during  the  long  days  of 
summer,  Sheila  had  never  been  in  the  Fauld  before,  nor  within 
any  of  the  cottars'  dwellings.  She  opened  her  big  brown  eyes 
very  wide  as  she  followed  Fergus  through  the  low  narrow  door 
into  the  kitchen,  the  floor  of  which  was  white  and  the  roof  black, 
the  rafters  having  been  varnished  with  the  peat  reek  of  genera- 
tions. The  kitchen  was  the  whole  width  of  the  house,  and  there 


78  SHEILA. 

was  a  tiny  window  not  much  bigger  than  a  port-hole,  both  to 
back  and  front.  Then,  just  behind  the  door,  there  was  the 
queerest,  quaintest  fire-place  Sheila  had  ever  seen  in  her  life ; 
just  a  handful  of  peats  burning  among  soft  brown  ash  on  two 
big  flat  stones,  and  a  kettle  hanging  on  a  chain  above  it,  and 
singing  with  all  its  might. 

A  shaggy  tan-coloured  collie  lay  at  full  length  before  the  fire, 
with  a  cat  and  two  kittens  on  its  back.  On  the  one  side  there 
was  a  kind  of  rude  couch  covered  with  a  faded  tartan  plaid.  In 
the  big  arm-chair,  by  the  peat  bin  in  the  wall,  sat  the  smith  him- 
self, enjoying  his  evening  pipe.  He  took  it  from  his  mouth 
when  the  children  came  in,  and  rose  up  to  receive  them,  with  a 
slow,  pleased  smile  on  his  bronzed  and  rugged  face.  Sheila 
looked  at  him  a  little  shyly,  and  kept  close  by  Fergus's  side,  for 
the  smith  was  a  great  big,  uncouth-looking  man,  and  the 
addition  of  an  immense  Scotch  bonnet  on  his  shaggy  hair  did 
not  by  any  means  soften  the  general  outline. 

*  An'  this  is  the  wee  leddy  from  Dalmore  ?     Mary  Macalpine, 
here's  the  gentry  to  see  ye.' 

Mary  came  out  of  the  adjoining  room,  with  a  motherly  smile 
of  welcome,  and  bade  them  sit  down  while  she  ran  to  get  cakes 
and  milk. 

'  We  can't  stay  long,'  Fergus  exclaimed ;  '  because  we're  going 
over  to  Rob  Macnaughton's  to  hear  about  the  mist-wraiths.' 

'Humph,'  said  the  smith,  with  a  smile.  'Ye  ha'e  surely 
gotten  round  Rob's  saft  side.  Does  he  no'  lock  ye  oot  ? ' 

*  0  no,  never,'  said  Fergus.     '  I  like  Rob,  and  so  will  Sheila. 
Where's  Katie ?     She's  mostly  here,  isn't  she?' 

'  Ay  ;  but  Jenny  Menzies,  thrawn  crone !  has  ta'en  the  gee,  an* 
winna  let  the  bairns  come  in.  It  was  jealous  she  was  of 
us — wasn't  she,  Mary  Macalpine  ?  because  the  bairns,  puir 
things!  liket  our  ingle  neuk  better  nor  her  cauldrife  hearth- 
stane.  An'  what  are  ye  daein'  wi'  yersel'  the  noo,  Maister 
Fergus?' 

'  Nothing.  Fin  going  to  be  a  minister,  Donald ;  and  if  you 
sleep  in  the  kirk  when  I'm  preaching  I'll  cry  out  to  you,'  said 
Fergus,  with  his  mouth  full  of  oatcake. 

'A   minister!'     The   smith   lifted   his   hands  into   the  air. 


AMONG  THE  FAULD  FOLK.  79 

'  As  weel  try  to  bridle  the  deer  or  cage  the  lark  as  pit  goon  an' 
bands  upon  you.' 

*  Ay,  for  sure,'  said  Mary,  stroking  Sheila's  soft  brown  curls 
with  a  very  tender  touch. 

'I'd  rather  apprentice  with  you,  Donald,'  said  Fergus,  with 
a  melancholy  smile. 

'  Come  then,  Sheila.  If  we're  going  to  Bob's,  it's  time  we 
were  away.' 

In  a  two-roomed  house,  near  the  roadside,  dwelt  Rob  Mac- 
naughton,  stocking -weaver  and  poet  of  Achnafauld.  He 
was  an  unmarried  man,  and  lived  entirely  by  himself,  not 
encouraging  even  his  neighbours  to  disturb  his  solitude.  He 
had  a  lame  leg,  and  was  not  otherwise  robust,  though  he  was 
tall  and  powerfully  built,  and  only  in  his  prime.  Fergus, 
with  the  fearless  unconcern  of  childhood,  went  in  and  out  all 
the  Fauld  houses,  Rob's  not  excepted,  and  had  taken  kindly 
to  the  morose,  strange  being,  who  was  not  a  favourite  in  the 
Fauld,  because  he  was  not  understood.  As  Donald  had  said, 
Fergus  had  got  round  the  stocking-weaver,  who  would  regale 
him  by  the  hour  with  old  legends,  which  were  too  weird 
and  fearsome  to  have  any  foundation  except  in  his  own  brain. 
Hand  in  hand,  then,  the  bairns  went  through  the  clachan,  and, 
without  ceremony,  entered  Rob  Macnaughton's  door.  The 
loom  was  silent,  and  Rob  himself  was  in  the  kitchen,  sitting 
at  the  table,  with  an  old  copy-book  before  him  and  a  quill  pen 
behind  his  ear.  He  looked  round  in  no  well  pleased  way  when 
he  heard  the  sneck  lifted  ;  but  his  face  cleared  at  sight  of 
the  bairns,  and  he  rose  to  welcome  them  at  once.  Sheila 
tightened  her  hold  on  the  hand  of  Fergus  as  she  looked  at 
the  big,  loose  figure,  with  the  thin,  embrowned,  withered-look- 
ing face  and  the  straggling  grey  beard  and  shaggy  brows, 
beneath  which  there  gleamed  a  pair  of  deep,  flashing,  penetrating 
eyes. 

'  I  have  brought  a  lady  to  see  you,  Rob,  and  to  hear 
about  the  mist  -  wraiths,'  said  Fergus,  as  he  closed  the 
door.  'And  you  must  4ell  every  word  of  it,  to  the  very 
end.' 

'  Is  this  the  sunbeam   frae   Dalmore  ?  '  inquired  Rob,  with 


8o  SHEILA. 

a  strange  softening  of  his  rugged  features.  '  You  are  wel- 
come, luach  machree.' 

Sheila  was  reassured  by  that  smile.  There  is  no  fear  in 
childhood  until  it  is  implanted  there  by  others.  Rob  placed 
chairs  for  them  round  the  fire,  and  sat  down  himself ;  but 
Sheila  planted  herself  by  his  side,  and  looked  wonderingly 
and  questioningly  into  his  face. 

'  Tell  us  a  story,'  she  said,  patting  his  hard  knuckles  with 
her  little  soft  hand.  That  touch  sent  a  thrill  through  the 
poet's  soul. 

'  I'll  sing  ye  a  song,  machree/  he  said  half  dreamily.  *  I 
was  but  at  it  when  you  carne  in.* 

And,  half  closing  his  eyes,  and  laying  one  hand  softly  on 
the  bright  head  of  the  child  at  his  knee,  Rob  began  to 
chant,  in  a  low,  musical  voice,  his  own  Gaelic,  the  sound  of 
which  kept  both  the  children  spell-bound.  It  was  a  pretty 
picture,  rendered  more  so  that  they  were  all  so  unconscious 
of  it.  This  was  what  Rob  sang : — 

MOLADH  QHLEANN  CUAICH. 
LE  IAIN  MAONEACHDAINN. 

Glean  nan  caorach,  Gleanna  cuaich  nan  cruaidh  louch, 

Cha'n  eil  leithid  ri  fhaotainn  an  taobh  so  d'on  Fhraing. 

Tha  fhalluing  co  priseil,  barr  fraoich  'a  bun  cioba, 

Is  neconan  is  millse  mu  d'chrichibh  's  gach  am 

Tha  fallaineachd  mhor  anns  a  ghleannan  bheag  bhoidheach, 

Tha  ni  agus  etoras  ann  a  d'choir  anns  gach  am  ; 

Tha  sithionn  an  aonich  'a  iasgach  a  chaolais 

Gu  bailt  ann  ri  fhaotainn  'us  cho  saor  ris  a  bhum, 

Tha  leath-chearc  'us  smndan  agus  coilech  an  dunain, 

Boo  maoisich  gu  luth'or  a  auibhal  nam  beann  ; 

Tha  chaug  's  na  smeorach  'a  na  badanaibh  boidheach 

Fo  fhasga  na  Sroina  seinn  ceol  air  gach  crann, 

Tha  ruadh-bhuic  'us  maoisich  'us  eildinn  le'n  laoigh  ann, 

Daimh  chabracli  sraonach  air  aodainn  nan  torn, 

'S  an  earbag  bheag  laoghach  bhios  a  comhnuidh  'a  an  doire 

'S  coin  bhachlach  bheag  loaghach  le'n  ceileerebh  binn. 

Tha  tarmain  'a  soin  rnadha  us  lachidh  chinn-uain  ann, 
Maigheach  ghlaa  a  cheum  nallach  gach  nar  anns  a  Ghlean, 


AMONG  THE  FAULD  FOLK.  81 

Na  codal  gu  guamach  's  na  laganaibh  naigneach 
Am  fasga  na  luachrich  na  cuirteag  gle  chruinn. 
'Miair  tbig  oirnn  an  Luinasd's  am  direadh  nan  stucaibb, 
Bidh  lamhacbd  air  fudar  'a  luaidh  dhu-ghorm  na  deann, 
Aig  morearaibh  's  aig  Duicaibh,  le'n  cuilbheara  dubailt, 
B'e  an  aighair's  an  sugradh  tigbinn  deu  ort  's  gacb  am. 

Tha  toilinntinn  ri  fha       jn  ma  d'gblacaibb  tha  faoilidb, 

Gar  am  biodh  ach  Loch  Fraochidh  na  aonaran  ann  ; 

'S  trio  bba  m£  le'm  dhriamlaich  's  le'm  cbulae  bbeag  riabacli. 

'8  mo  ghad  air  a  lionadh  le  iasgaibb  nan  lann. 

Tba  thu  creaganacb,  sronach,  feadanach,  boidheach, 

Tha  tha  bileagacb,  foirleanacb,  romach,  glan,  grinn ; 

Gu  dearcagach,  broileagach,  smeuragach,  oireagach, 

'S  gach  meas  bu  roighneach  ana  coilltibh  a  cinn. 

Cha'n  fhaigbt  am  folach  aon  am  an  a  d'choirsa 

Ach  muinean  do'n  choineach  bu  nosar  glan  grinn : 

Fraoch  comhdach  nan  sleibbtean  fo  blathas  mios  a  chestein. 

Is  mil  as  ag  eiridh  mar  eirthuinn  nan  torn. 

Tha'n  abhainn  gu  brighor  a  tearnadh  gun  sigios  oirr, 

Air  leabaidh  do'n  phebble  na  sin  ad  cbom, 

Dol  seachad  na  lubaibb  gun  smalan  gun  smuir  oirr, 

IB  i  ceadach  am  shuileabh  mar  shuicar  glan  pronn. 

Struth  fiorglilan  mar  chriostal  leara  's  miann  bhi  ga  fbaicinn, 

Mar  fhion-dearg  tha  bhlas  domli  's  tu  carach  gu  grinn, 

'S  tu  sruthan  is  boidhche  tha'n  taobh  so  do'n  Jordan, 

'8  ged  theirinn  cha  bu  sgleo-uisge  mor  Amazon. 

Tba  an  cala  ro  phriseil-leam  's  ait  bbi  ga  innseadh, 

Gu  Bocrach  na  sineadn  air  dilinn  nan  tonn ; 

Gu  ma  maireann  na  daoine,  cbosd  ruit  am  maoine, 

Dheanamh  tioram  a  cbaolais  do  gach  aon  tha  san-flonn. 

Tha  Brnthan  glan  crasbbach  a  Gleannlochan  a  taomadh, 

Chumas  biadh  agus  aodach  ris  gach  aon  tba  san  duthaicb, 

Le  innsraniaide  grinne-mnillean  cardaidb  'us  mine — 

Cha'n  eil  aicheadh  'a  a  chruinne  le  sireadh  gu  cul, 

Tha  do  gbibhtean  do  aireamh,  aig  a  mhiad,  is  a  dh  'fhas  iad, 

On  am  san  robh  ADI  am  braig  cuig-punnt, 

Is  tu  's  aileagan  dhuinne  thar  gach  ait  anns  a  chruinne, 

Chaidh  ar  'n  arach  aunt  uile,  is  c'um  nach  molamaid  thu. 

[The  foregoing  song  was  composed  by  John  Macnaughton,  Achnafauld, 
Glenquaich,  who  died  in  the  year  1866,  aged  85.    The  following  is  a  trans 
lation  by  A.  O.  :— ] 
6 


83  SHEILA. 


PRAISE  OF  GLENQUAICH. 

Glen  where  the  sheep  are,  Glenquaich,  where  live  brave,  hardy  heroei, 

Thine  equal  is  not  to  be  found  on  this  side  of  France. 

Thy  mantle's  so  precious  of  heather  and  mountain  grass, 

With  daisies  so  lovely  abounding  at  all  times. 

There  is  excellent  health  in  that  beautiful  little  glen, 

And  cattle  and  riches  are  to  be  found  in  thy  precincts. 

Venison  off  the  hills,  and  fish  from  the  loch, 

Are  to  be  found  in  abundance,  and  as  free  as  the  water. 

Grey-hens  and  wild  pigeons  and  grouse  from  the  moors, 

And  roebucks  so  agile  roam  over  the  hills ; 

The  cuckoo  and  mavis  in  the  beautiful  woodlands, 

In  the  shelter  of  the  mountains,  sing  music  on  each  bow. 

The  red-deer  and  doe,  with  their  frisky  young  offspring, 

And  the  stately  antlered  deer  on  the  brow  of  the  hill ; 

And  the  beautiful  roes  are  at  home  in  the  thicket, 

Where  the  blithe  feathered  songsters  are  singing  so  sweetly. 

There  are  ptarmigan  and  grouse,  and  blue-headed  wild  ducks, 
And  the  white  hare  with  her  proud  step  is  to  be  found  on  the 

hill, 

Sleeping  securely  in  the  seclusion  of  the  hollow, 
Cuddled  up  very  snugly,  quite  near  to  the  rushes. 
When  Lammas  has  come,  and  grouse-shooting  begins. 
Lords  and  dukes  with  their  double-barrelled  guns 
Get  a  plenteous  supply  of  powder  and  shot, 
And  their  joy  and  their  sport  is  to  come  to  the  Glen. 

Delightful  enjoyment's  to  be  found  in  thy  valley, 

Though  there  was  but  only  Loch  Fraochie  there. 

Oft  with  my  line  and  a  little  brown  fly 

Have  I  filled  my  withe  with  the  beautiful  trout. 

Thou  art  craggy  and  rugged,  with  thy  beautiful  brooks ; 

Herbaceous,  extensive,  rough,  but  right  clean. 

Blae,  wortle,  bramble,  and  cloud  berries, 

The  choicest  of  fruits  will  grow  in  the  Glen. 

Bank  foggage  will  never  be  found  on  thy  hills, 

But  mountain  grass  and  moss  in  the  beautiful  dells. 

Luxuriant  heather  grows  on  every  moor, 

And  the  fragrance  of  honey  is  conveyed  by  the  breeze. 

Untiringly  flows  the  substantial  river 

In  its  channel,  a  bed  of  the  cleanest  of  pebbles, 

Winding  cheerily  on,  free  of  mud  and  of  dust, 

More  precious  in  my  eyes  than  the  sweetest  sugar 


AMONG  THE  FAULD  FOLK. 

Thy  clear  stream,  like  crystal,  I  love  well  to  see ; 

Sweeter  than  red  wine  to  me  is  thy  taste. 

Thou'rt  a  lovelier  stream  by  far  than  the  Jordan, 

And  no  lie,  though  I  say  it,  than  the  great  Amazon. 

The  graceful  swan — I  am  proud  to  declare  it — 

Is  quietly  reposing  on  thy  watery  wave. 

May  those  generous  men  flourish  who  gave  so  much  money 

To  bridge  over  the  river  for  all  in  the  Glen. 

A  tributary  stream  from  Glenlochan  comes  foaming, 
Which  keeps  food  and  clothing  to  each  one  in  the  place 
By  the  excellent  machinery  in  the  meal  and  wool  mills.       v 
No  better  than  these  can  be  found  anywhere. 
Thy  gifts  without  number  to  all  who  will  take  them 
Since  that  time  that  Adam  lived  up  in  the  Glen. 
Thou'rt  a  jewel  more  precious  than  all  in  the  world — 
Why  should  we  not  praise  thee,  who  nurtured  us  all? 


CHAPTER  IX. 


THE   SHADOW   OF    DEATH. 

O  Love  J  who  bewailest 

The  frailty  of  all  things  well, 
Why  ch  >ose  you  the  frailest 

For  your  cradle,  your  home,  and  your  bier? 

SHELLEY. 

P  and  down,  to  and  fro  the  dining-room  of  Dalmore, 

strode  Macdonald  one  August  evening,  and  he  had 
the  appearance  of  a  man  in  the  keen  throes  of 
mental  anguish.  His  brows  were  knit,  and  he 
clasped  and  unclasped  his  hands  with  a  nervous  haste  as  he 
paused  now  and  again  to  listen  with  strained  ear  for  any  sound 
to  come  from  Tipstairs.  In  the  upper  room,  his  wife,  the  darling 
of  his  heart,  lay  between  life  and  death.  Another  hour,  the 
physician  had  said,  would  decide  the  issue.  He  seemed  to  have 
been  enduring  this  agonizing  strain  for  hours;  in  reality,  it 
was  only  minutes.  They  had  sent  him  down.  The  doctor 
had  implored  him  to  stay  in  the  dining-room ;  for  his  restless, 
hurried  pacing  up  and  down  the  corridor  was  disturbing  the 
sick-room.  He  had  obeyed  immediately.  All  he  could  do  to 
help  was  to  keep  out  of  the  way;  but  oh,  they  seemed  careless, 
indifferent  to  his  agony,  though  it  was  the  light  of  his  life  who 
was  in  such  fearful  peril.  He  heard  a  foot  on  the  stair  at 
length,  and  sprang  to  the  door.  The  doctor,  a  grave,  middle- 
aged  man,  of  eminent  skill,  who  had  come  all  the  way  from 


THE  SHADO  W  OF  DBA  TH.  85 

Edinburgh  to  attend  at  this  crisis,  motioned  him  to  be  silent, 
and,  entering  the  room,  shut  the  door. 

'  It  is  over,'  he  said  briefly  ;  '  the  child  is  dead.' 

'  What  is  the  child  to  me  ?     How  is  my  wife  ?  ' 

'She  cannot  live,'  said  the  doctor  briefly,  and,  turning  his 
head  away,  strode  over  to  the  window,  and  stood  with  his  back 
to  the  man,  not  caring  to  look  upon  his  anguish. 

'  Not  live  1  Why  not  ? '  cried  Macdonald.  '  What  use  are 
you  if  you  can  do  nothing  for  her  ?  ' 

'Mr.  Macdonald,'  said  the  physician  gravely,  almost  sadly, 
'  we  can  only  do  what  we  can.  We  cannot  work  miracles. 
Nothing  short  of  a  miracle  could  save  your  wife's  life.' 

Macdonald  groaned  aloud.  The  doctor  was  amazed  to  see 
such  evidence  of  devoted  love.  He  had  not  been  greatly  pre- 
possessed in  favour  of  this  rough  Highland  laird  in  the  hours  of 
the  last  evening  which  he  had  spent  in  his  company.  He  had, 
indeed,  wondered  in  what  curious  way  he  had  wooed  and  won 
so  sweet  a  wife.  But  there  was  no  doubt  about  the  genuineness 
of  the  man's  anguish.  It  was  searing  itself  into  every  feature. 

'Nothing  can  be  done?  '  he  said,  calming  himself  by  an  effort, 
and  speaking  in  a  tone  of  anxious  inquiry. 

'  Nothing.  The  strength  is  completely  gone.  Mrs.  Macdonald 
has  never  been  a  very  robust  woman.  No  constitution  to  fall 
back  upon.' 

Such  was  the  brief,  callous  explanation  of  the  whole  matter 
as  viewed  in  the  light  of  medical  skill.  Macdonald  received  it 
in  silence. 

'  How  long ' —  He  stopped  short,  unable  to  frame  the 
question  his  eyes  dumbly  asked. 

'  Not  long.  You  had  better  go  up.  She  has  asked  for  you 
several  times.' 

Without  a  word,  Macdonald  turned  and  marched  out  of  the 
room. 

Then  the  physician  stretched  himself  on  the  couch  and  shut 
his  eyes.  He  had  been  up  all  night,  and  his  work  was  done. 
He  was  not  a  heartless  man ;  but  he  had  never  married,  and 
could  not  understand  a  husband's  feelings.  He  .was,  indeed, 
rather  sceptical  about  them,  as  a  rule. 


86  SHEILA. 

The  Laird  met  Anne,  Sheila's  nurse-girl,  on  the  stair.  She 
was  crying,  with  her  apron  at  her  eyes.  He  passed  her  by 
without  a  word,  and  strode  on  to  the  large,  wide  bed-chamber, 
with  the  long  windows  looking  over  to  Amulree,  where  his  wife 
had  laid  her  down  to  die. 

The  nurse  heard  his  heavy  foot  in  the  corridor,  and  passed 
out  as  he  went  in.  She  only  slipped  into  the  adjoining  room, 
to  be  at  hand  if  required.  Macdonnld  only  saw  one  gleam  of 
the  perfectly  colourless  face  on  the  white  pillows,  and,  staggering 
blindly  across  the  room,  he  fell  on  his  knees  at  the  bed-side 
and  buried  his  face  on  his  arms.  His  action  shook  the  whole 
bed,  and  his  wife  opened  her  eyes.  Then  her  hand  went  forth 
very  feebly,  for  her  strength  was  spent,  and,  reaching  his  head, 
lay  there  content.  In  his  deep,  terrible  agony,  he  was  un- 
conscious of  that  light,  loving  touch. 

'  Graham/  she  said  at  last,  in  a  voiceless  whisper,  '  Graham, 
look  up ;  there  are  some  things  to  say.1 

He  flung  up  his  head,  and  his  eyes  dwelt  upon  her  face 
lovingly,  yearningly,  with  a  look  which  might  have  drawn  her 
back  to  life  and  health.  It  told  of  intense,  undying,  unutterable 
love.  She  had  all  his  affection,  for  until  he  met  her  it  had 
been  lavished  on  none.  Ellen  Macleod  was  his  only  living 
relative,  and  she  had  not  sought  or  won  any  of  his  love. 

'  It  is  to  be  a  fearful  trial,  Graham,'  whispered  the  dying  wife 
feebly.  '  Try  to  bear  it.  We  have  been  so  happy.  I — I  thank 
you  for  all' — 

'  Hush,  hush,  Edith !  don't  torture  me ! '  he  cried  hoarsely. 
'  I  have  only  known  what  life  is  since  you  came  to  Dalrnore. 
Oh,  wife,  live — live  for  my  sake!' 

'  I  would  if  I  could,'  she  whispered,  and  her  faint  smile  was 
very  sweet.  '  But  I  must  go.  We  cannot  understand.  Some 
day  it  will  be  made  plain,  and  it  is  not  for  ever.' 

Her  hopeful  words  found  no  echo  in  his  heart.  Ah !  in 
death's  dark  hour  it  is  not  easy  to  find  comfort,  even  in  a  living 
hope.  It  sometimes  seems  as  if  our  day  had  set  in  utter 
darkness. 

The  silence  which  followed  was  broken  by  the  hasty  patter  of 
small  feet  in  the  corridor;  the  door  was  opened  by  a  quick. 


THE  SHADO  W  OF  DEA  TH.  87 

impulsive  hand,  and  Sheila,  with  a  quick,  sobbing  cry,  sprang 
upon  the  bed. 

'  Oh,  mamma,  mamma  1  they  would  not  let  me  come  I '  she 
cried,  as  if  her  little  heart  would  break.  '  What  is  it?  you  are 
so  white.  Are  you  very  ill,  dear  mamma?  Is  that  why  papa 
is  crying  ? ' 

The  mother  had  no  strength  to  reply.  With  a  last  effort, 
she  lifted  the  child's  hand  and  tried  to  place  it  round  Mac- 
donald's  neck. 

'Kiss  mamma,  darling.  Be  good,  love  God,  and  care  for 
papa,'  she  whispered  slowly  and  with  difficulty.  *  Graham,  take 
care  of  Sheila,  and  don't  let  Ellen  Macleod  come  near  her.' 

Even  in  death  the  shadow  Ellen  Macleod  had  cast  on  Edith's 
married  life  lay  chilly  on  her  heart. 

Macdonald  heard  these  words  as  in  a  dream.  He  seemed  to 
know  no  more  until  they  told  him  gently  his  wife  was  dead. 
Then  he  became  conscious  of  a  childish  hand  clinging  tearfully 
about  his  neck,  and,  gathering  himself  up,  he  took  the  child  to 
his  heart,  and  turned  away  from  the  room  without  a  backward 
glance. 

Ellen  Macleod  was  sitting  at  the  drawing-room  window  at 
Shonnen,  busy,  as  usual,  with  some  knitting.  On  the  little 
grassy  slope  before  the  house  Fergus  was  lying  at  full  length, 
with  Colin  beside  him.  Colin  divided  his  time  between  Dalmore 
and  Shonnen.  To  him  it  had  appeared  at  first  an  extraordinary 
thing  why  the  family  should  be  separated.  The  dog  really 
belonged  to  Fergus,  his  uncle  having  given  him  to  the  boy 
when  he  brought  him  home,  a  prize  puppy,  one  day  from  the 
show  at  Inverness.  But  Ellen  Macleod  had  declined  to  give 
him  house-room  at  Shonnen;  so  Colin  slept  at  Dalmore,  and 
only  visited  the  Lodge  when  he  wearied  for  a  sight  of  his 
young  master. 

Fergus  had  an  open  book  before  him,  but  his  thoughts  were 
far  enough  from  study.  He  was  thinking  that  it  wanted  but 
two  days  to  the  '  Twelfth,'  and  wondering  whether  Uncle 
Graham  would  let  him  handle  a  gun  this  year,  as  he  had 
promised.  It  was  life  to  him  to  be  out  of  doors.  Do  what 


88  SHEILA. 

they  would,  they  would  never  make  a  student  of  him.  Ellen 
Macleod  knew  this  right  well,  but  the  knowledge  did  not  make 
her  waver  in  her  decision.  An  heir  was  expected  at  Dalmore, 
so  her  last  hope  was  extinguished. 

'  Fergus,  isn't  that  Jessie  Mackenzie  running  up  the  road  ?  ' 
she  asked,  putting  her  head  out  of  the  open  window,  and 
pointing  along  towards  Amulree. 

'Yes,  mother  ;  what's  she  flying  like  that  for?  '  asked  Fergus, 
turning  on  his  side,  and  shading  his  eyes  from  the  glow  of  the 
sunset. 

'  I  can't  tell ;  it  is  most  extraordinary.  She  only  went  an 
errand  to  the  inn  for  me.' 

They  were  not  long  kept  in  suspense.     The  girl  came  hurry 
ing  up   to  the  Lodge,  in  by  the  back  entrance,  and   straight 
to   the    dining-room    door,  and    opened   it    without   knocking. 
Through  the    open  window  Fergus  heard  quite  plainly  every 
word  she  spoke. 

'  Oh,  ma'am,  Mrs.  Macdonald's  dead  1 ' 

'What?' 

Ellen  Macleod  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  her  face  flushed  all  over. 

'  Quite  true,  ma'am ;  at  twenty  minutes  past  six ;  an'  the 
baby,  a  son,  is  dead  too.  Oh  1  oh !  what  a  day  for  Dalmore  I  * 
and  the  warm-hearted  girl  wrung  her  hands  in  token  of  her 
distress. 

'  Jessie  Mackenzie,  the  thing  is  impossible  I  Mrs.  Macdonald 
was  alive  and  well,  out  in  the  garden,  I  was  told,  no  later  than 
yesterday.' 

'  Ah,  but  that's  not  to  say  she's  alive  this  day.  Oh,  it's  too 
true,  ma'am.  Word  came  down  from  Dalmore  to  Macpherson, 
and  he's  driving  the  doctor  in  to  Dunkeld  to  catch  the  train.' 

'  Dead  1 '  Ellen  Macleod  turned  away,  and,  approaching  the 
open  window,  stood  there  in  stony  silence.  She  saw  Fergus, 
with  Colin  at  his  heels,  already  crossing  the  Braan  by  the 
stepping-stones  he  had  rolled  down  himself  before  the  Lodge  to 
make  a  quick  cut  to  Dalmore.  She  knew  where  the  boy  was 
going.  She  pictured  him  even  entering  the  house,  while  she 
repeated  to  herself  the  one  word — dead  I  The  woman  who  had 
supplanted  her  had  not  long  enjoyed  the  place  she  had  usurped. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.  89 

Dead !  That  bright,  sweet,  gracious  woman,  whose  girlish 
beauty  had  made  many  wonder  at  Macdonald's  luck.  Dead ! 
It  was  an  awful  thought.  Her  hard,  proud  mouth  quivered, 
not  with  grief,  for  she  felt  none,  but  with  the  sheer  violence  of 
the  physical  and  mental  shock.  Meanwhile,  Fergus  was  run- 
ning with  all  his  might  up  to  Dalmore.  There  was  nobody 
about  the  outhouses,  and  when  he  got  round  to  the  front 
entrance  he  found  the  door  wide  open.  As  he  stepped  into 
the  hall  he  was  struck  by  the  strange  brooding  silence  in  the 
house.  He  started  when  the  clock  struck  eight.  Colin  had 
his  tail  between  his  legs,  and  was  suspiciously  sniffing  the  air. 
Suddenly,  without  any  warning,  he  gave  vent  to  a  long,  mournful 
howl,  which  made  Fergus  shiver,  and  brought  two  servants 
hurrying  up  from  the  kitchen  to  see  what  it  meant. 

'It's  only  Colin,  Christina,' said  the  boy,  with  a  faint,  sickly 
smile  ;  and,  taking  him  by  the  collar,  he  dragged  him  out  to  the 
stable  and  shut  him  in. 

'  Is  it  true  that  my  uncle's  wife  is  dead,  Hamish  ? '  he  asked 
the  stable-boy,  who  was  lounging  at  the  coach-house  door  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

Hamish  nodded  stolidly ;  and  Fergus  went  away  round  to  the 
front  door  again,  and  entered  the  house.  He  did  not  know 
what  he  wanted,  or  what  made  him  stay.  He  could  not  believe 
that  Aunt  Edith,  who  only  a  few  days  ago  had  stopped  her 
carriage  on  the  road  to  lean  out  and  kiss  him,  could  be  lying 
cold  and  still,  as  he  remembered  seeing  his  father  lie  at  the 
manse  of  Meiklemore.  He  wanted  to  see  his  Uncle  Graham  or 
Sheila,  just  to  make  sure  that  this  terrible  thing  had  really 
happened.  He  looked  into  the  dining-room,  but  it  was  empty. 
The  door  of  his  uncle's  own  room  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
corridor  was  wide  open,  and  there  was  nobody  in  it.  With 
noiseless  step  and  bated  breath,  Fergus  crept  upstairs  to  the 
drawing-room.  He  heard  the  sound  of  whispering  voices  and 
hurrying  feet  on  the  upper  floor,  but  nobody  came  to  disturb 
him.  The  drawing-room  door  was  a  little  ajar,  and  when  he 
looked  in,  he  saw  crouched  up  on  the  deerskin  rug  a  little  figure 
in  a  crumpled  white  frock.  It  was  Sheila,  poor  motherless 
Iambi  fast  asleep,  with  the  big  tears  lying  wet  on  her  white 


90  SHEILA. 

cheeks,  and  fringing  her  long  brown  lashes.  It  was  past 
her  bed-time,  but  they  had  forgotten  all  about  her ;  while  she, 
poor  child  1  had  forgotten  her  sorrow  in  the  deep  slumber  of 
childhood.  A  lump  rose  in  the  boy's  throat,  and  he  turned 
away.  Not  given  much  to  tears,  his  eyes  were  full  at  sight  of 
Sheila.  Just  as  he  slipped  away  downstairs,  he  met  Mrs. 
Cameron,  the  housekeeper,  who  looked  surprised  to  see  him. 

'  Where  have  ye  come  from,  Maister  Fergus  ? '  she  asked,  in  a 
whisper.  '  This  is  a  sad,  sad  day  for  Dahnore.  Will  you  come 
up  and  see  our  sweet  leddy  ?  She's  like  a  angel  in  her  sleep.' 

The  boy  shivered,  but  there  was  a  fascination  in  the 
thought.  He  could  not  really  believe  that  Aunt  Edith  was 
dead  unless  his  own  eyes  convinced  him.  So  he  nodded,  and 
followed  the  housekeeper  upstairs  once  more.  Their  work 
was  done  in  the  chamber  of  death.  Loving  hands  had  per- 
formed the  last  service  on  earth  for  the  beloved  mistress  of 
Dalmore,  and  when  Fergus  stole  softly,  fearfully  almost,  into 
the  room  behind  the  servant,  he  was  conscious  of  a  curious 
peace  which  fell  upon  him.  The  blinds  were  drawn,  but  the 
sunshine  she  had  loved  stole  through,  and  made  a  mellow 
radiance  in  the  room.  They  had  removed  from  the  room 
everything  which  could  suggest  the  brief,  sharp  struggle  which 
had  snapped  the  thread  of  life,  and  there  she  lay,  white,  calm, 
peaceful,  with  her  hands  folded,  and  a  sprig  of  white  heather 
on  her  breast.  The  face  was  uncovered,  and  it  seemed  to 
Fergus  that  she  looked  as  if  she  had  been  asleep ;  there 
was  even  a  faint  smile  on  the  sweet  mouth.  She  had  left  a 
blessed  memory  behind,  even  in  the  heart  of  the  boy  to  whom 
her  smile  and  her  motherly  kindness  had  been  like  the  wine  of 
life.  If  Ellen  Macleod  had  but  known  what  was  passing  in  her 
son's  heart  at  that  moment,  she  would  have  been  jealous  of  her 
rival  even  in  death.  But  that  was  a  tiling  Fergus  Macleod 
never  spoke  of  until  years  after,  and  it  was  to  one  who  shared 
with  him  the  regret  that  a  life  so  precious  should  have  been 
so  prematurely  ended. 

'That  will  do,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Cameron,'  he  said  gently 
'Would  you  let  me  have  a  bit  of  that  heather  just  to  keep,  that 
httic  bit  touching  her  hand  ? ' 


THE  SHAD  OW  OF  DEA  TH.  9 1 

The  housekeeper  sobbed  aloud,  as,  with  reverent  hand,  she 
broke  the  little  spray  from  the  stem  and  gave  it  into  the  boy's 
hand.  His  grief  was  not  noisy,  but  she  saw  that  it  was 
profound.  As  Fergus  Macleod  went  downstairs  he  kissed  the 
sprig  of  white  heather,  and  in  that  kiss  a  vow  was  hid.  What 
it  was  we  may  not  yet  know,  but  it  made  a  man  of  our  hero, 
and  filled  him  with  a  manly  resolve. 

He  did  not  go  back  to  the  drawing-room.  Young  though 
he  was,  he  felt  that  sleep  was  merciful  to  Sheila.  There  would 
be  plenty  of  time  to-morrow  for  her  to  cry  her  heart  out  anew 
for  what  she  had  lost.  The  sun  had  set  when  he  went  out  of 
doors  again,  and  the  sky  beyond  Glenquaich  was  a  wonder  of 
glorious  loveliness.  There  seemed  to  be  a  solemn  hush  in  the 
air,  but  there  was  nothing  sad  or  melancholy  to  add  to  the 
natural  grief.  Nay,  it  was  as  if  the  Angel  of  Death,  in  his  swift 
passage,  had  left  an  abiding  peace  on  Dalmore.  Fergus  went 
to  the  stable  for  Colin,  and  turned  his  face  down  the  hill.  But 
the  dog  would  not  follow.  He  rushed  to  and  fro,  whining 
uneasily,  and  finally  set  off  round  by  the  stable  and  up  through 
the  firs  towards  the  crest  of  Crom  Creagh.  Fergus  had  the 
curiosity  to  follow  him,  not  being  in  any  special  hurry  to  go 
back  to  Shonnen.  He  felt,  though  he  could  not  express  or 
understand  it,  that  his  mother  would  break  the  spell  of  peace 
which  lingered  about  Dalmore,  and  that  she  would  fret  him 
and  make  him  miserable  about  his  aunt.  He  was  only  a  child, 
but  experience  was  teaching  him.  He  had  visions  and  percep- 
tions far  beyond  his  years.  He  could  even  weigh  motives  in 
the  balance,  and  discriminate  between  right  and  wrong,  justice 
and  injustice  with  marvellous  precision.  God's  spirit  touched 
his  heart.  But  for  the  wholesome  influence  of  Sheila  and  her 
Christian  mother,  he  must  have  grown  up  an  unnatural,  unlove- 
able being.  For  Sheila  was  his  guardian  angel.  Her  gentle 
spirit,  so  pure  and  sensitive  to  every  thing  rude,  held  his  in  re- 
straint. Often  did  he  hear  from  her  lips  the  Gospel  lessons  which 
she  learned  from,  her  mother,  and  these  helped  him.  Following 
on,  with  glowing  heart,  after  fleet-footed  Colin,  Fergus  came  upor 
a  sight  Which  made  him.  suddenly  burst  into  tears.  There  wa? 
the  solitary  figure  of  his  Uncle  Graham,  sitting  under  the 


9*  SHEILA. 

frowning  crest  of  Crom  Creagh,  with  his  head  deep  buried  in 
his  hands,  fighting  his  lone,  silent  battle  where  no  eye  but 
God's  could  see  him.  But  the  faithful  dog,  with  a  keenness  of 
intuition  which  seemed  more  than  instinct,  had  found  him  out, 
and  now  lay  at  his  feet  with  his  head  on  his  knees,  whining 
piteously,  with  his  almost  human  eyes  fixed  upon  the  bowed 
head. 

Fergus  crept  up  to  his  uncle's  side,  laid  his  arm  round  his 
neck,  and  whispered  brokenly, — 

'Oh,  Uncle  Graham,  don't  cry!  We  shall  see  Aunt  Edith 
again.' 

A  shudder  ran  through  Graham  Macdonald's  stalwart  frame, 
and  a  deep  groan  escaped  his  lips.  He  moved  his  hand,  and  it 
touched  Colin's  head.  He  never  spoke,  but  patted  the  faithful 
collie,  and  then  looked  up  at  Fergus  with  a  strange,  melancholy 
smile. 

'  Ay,  Fergus  lad,'  was  all  he  said ;  and  then  his  eye  wandered 
away  beyond  the  roof  of  Dalmore  to  the  sweet  valley  of  Glen- 
quaich,  where  the  loch  lay  gemmed  with  the  ruddy  blush  of 
the  sunset  on  its  breast.  It  was  a  picture  she  had  loved,  and 
never  again  would  her  eyes  rest  upon  it.  It  had  lost  its  beauty 
for  him.  From  that  day  the  world  was  a  changed  world  for 
Macdonald  of  Dalmore. 


CHAPTER   X. 


ESTRANGED. 

Go  1    Darken  not,  by  alien  voice  and  look, 
The  place  made  sacred  by  her  memory  I 

T  was  all  over.  The  Lady  of  Dalmore  had  been 
borne  to  her  rest  at  Shiiin  by  the  strong  arms  of 
those  who  loved  her,  and  laid  down  on  the  green 
hillside  within  sight  of  the  silver  loch,  while  Blind 
Rob's  pipes  played  the  mournful  notes  of  'The  Land  o'  the 
Leal.'  It  was  a  great  gathering — a  'beautifu'  buryin','  the 
Fauld  wives  said  to  each  other,  as  they  sobbed  over  the 
untimely  end  of  the  sweet  Lady  of  Dalmore.  It  was  as  if 
nature  mourned  with  her  human  creatures,  for  a  dreary,  wet 
mist  hung  low  over  mountain,  moor,  and  loch,  like  a  pall. 

And  when  it  was  all  over,  Graham  Macdonald  went  back  to 
his  dreary  home,  where  a  white-faced  child  in  a  black  frock 
was  wandering  desolately  through  the  house,  crying  for  the 
mother  that  would  never  come  again. 

From  the  upper  window  at  Shonnen,  Ellen  Macleod  watched 
the  funeral  train  leave  Dalrnore  and  wend  its  way  along  by  the 
Achnafauld  road  towards  Shian.  But  the  intervening  distance 
was  too  wide  to  permit  her  to  distinguish  the  different  carriages 
and  equipages  which  made  up  the  long,  imposing  train.  It  was 
a  gr&at  gathering,  for  even  in  the  few  short  months  Edith 


94  SHEILA. 

Macdonald  had  reigned  in  Dalmore  she  had  made  for  herself 
many  friends.  Fergus  was  very  wet  when  he  returned  to 
Shonnen  late  in  the  afternoon,  for  the  mist- wraiths  had  drooped 
their  wings  lower  and  lower,  until  they  too  dropped  tears  for 
the  Lady  of  Dalmore.  After  he  had  changed  his  dress  and 
come  to  the  dining-room,  his  mother  found  him  absent  and 
uncommunicative. 

'  It  was  a  great  burying,  Fergus,'  she  said.  *  I  could  not 
make  out  the  coaches.  Who  were  all  there?* 

'  I  don't  know,  mother.     It  was  a  great  crowd.' 

'  Who  let  down  the  coffin,  then  ?  You  can  surely  tell 
that.' 

'  Uncle  Graham  at  the  head,  mother,  and  I  was  at  the  foot, 
beside  Sir  Douglas  Murray.  Lord  Dunloch  was  at  one  side, 
and  General  Macpherson  at  the  other.  I  don't  know  the 
rest.' 

'  What  ministers  had  you  at  the  house  ? ' 

*I  don't  know  them,  mother,  except  Mr.  Macfarlane.  There 
were  others  there,  I  think,'  said  the  boy  wearily,  for  the 
questioning  hurt  him.  He  had  been  sufficiently  saddened  by 
the  event  of  the  day.  He  could  not  bear  to  discuss  every 
trifling  element  in  it,  as  his  mother  evidently  desired.  She  was 
consumed  with  curiosity — had,  indeed,  felt  a  kind  of  surprised 
chagrin  at  the  great  turn-out  of  well-known  people  at  her 
sister-in-law's  burying. 

*  Were  there  any  ladies  at  the  house  ? ' 

*  Only  Lady  Ailsa  Murray.' 

*  Did  you  hear  anything  about  any  arrangements  ?     Is  the 
little  girl  to  go  to  Murrayshaugh  ? ' 

'  Sheila  ?  Oh,  I  don't  think  so.  I  hope  not,'  said  Fergus 
quickly.  '  Uncle  Graham  won't  let  her,  I  am  sure.  She 
sat  on  his  knee  all  the  time  of  the  service  in  the  dining- 
room.' 

Dinner  was  served  just  then,  and  the  subject  was  laid  aside. 
But  Ellen  Macleod  pondered  certain  things  in  her  mind  for 
the  rest  of  that  day.  The  violence  of  the  shock  the  sudden 
death  had  given  her  had  worn  off,  and  she  had  felt  a  strange 


ESTRANGED.  95 

thrill  that  very  afternoon  when  the  funeral  train  passed  by ; 
for  the  interloper  was  gone,  and  there  was  nothing  now  to  stand 
between  Fergus  Macleod  and  Dalmore.  She  had  already 
settled  in  her  own  mind  that  the  child  Sheila  would  return  to 
the  Hurrays ;  for  of  course  she  had  not  the  shadow  of  a  claim 
to  expect  a  home  at  Dalmore.  And,  after  a  time,  when  the 
way  was  smoothed,  and  past  differences  between  her  brother 
and  herself  healed  by  a  little  diplomacy  on  her  part,  she 
pictured  herself  and  Fergus  reinstalled  at  Dalmore. 

It  had  been  a  trial  of  no  ordinary  kind  for  her  proud  spirit 
to  stoop  to  the  obscurity  of  Shonnen  Lodge.  She  had  not 
spoken  to  Macdonald  for  months,  but  she  had  no  doubt  that  he 
would  feel  the  need  of  her  help  at  this  crisis. 

Between  the  death  and  the  burying,  however,  no  message 
had  come  from  Dalmore — not  even  a  formal  notification  of  the 
event — neither  was  she  asked  up  to  the  house  for  the  service  of 
the  funeral  day.  She  knew  that  Lady  Ailsa  had  come  up  the 
day  after  Mrs.  Macdonald's  death,  and  had  not  returned  to 
Murrayshaugh.  So  she  attributed  the  lack  of  attention  shown 
to  herself  to  the  officious  interference  of  Lady  Murray,  and 
resolved  to  bide  her  time  until  Dalmore  should  be  restored  to 
solitude.  A  few  more  days  passed  by,  and  as  no  message  came 
from  Dalmore,  Ellen  Macleod  made  up  her  mind  to  go  up  and 
find  out  for  herself  how  matters  stood.  She  had  no  means  of 
knowing  whether  her  brother  was  alone,  or  whether  Lady 
Murray  still  remained,  and  her  curiosity  could  no  longer  be 
restrained. 

Fergus  had  gone  off  for  a  long  day's  fishing  on  the  loch ;  so, 
early  in  the  afternoon,  Ellen  Macleod.  left  Shonnen,  and,  crossing 
over  by  Fergus's  stepping-stones,  walked  slowly  up  to  Dalmore. 
She  had  not  crossed  the  Girron  Brig  for  eleven  months,  since 
the  day  she  had  left  Dalmore,  a  week  before  her  brother's 
marriage.  She  was  not  a  sentimental  woman,  and  she  felt  no 
thrill  of  feeling  as  she  entered  upon  the  familiar  carriage-way. 
Her  interest  in  Dalmore  was  of  a  very  practical  kind,  chiefly 
made  up  of  pride  and  greed. 

But  she  did  think,  when  she  reached  the  tableland  and  turned 


96  SHEILA. 

into  the  avenue  gate,  that  the  place  had  never  looked  so  bonnie. 
It  had  never  been  kept  in  such  condition  in  her  day.  There 
was  not  a  weed  nor  a  bare  spot  on  the  smooth  gravel,  and  the 
turf  was  closely  shaven,  and  looked  like  finest  velvet.  Edith 
had  planted  some  Dijon  rose-trees  before  the  door,  and  they  had 
taken  kindly  to  the  soil,  and  were  covered  with  bloom  and  bud. 
On  either  side  of  the  door  were  two  huge  terra-cotta  vases 
filled  with  white  heather,  a  mass  of  delicate  bloom.  Wherever 
Edith  Macdonald  was,  she  gathered  pretty  things  about  her,  and 
she  had  loved  her  new  home  with  a  loving  pride,  and  found 
delight  in  its  adornment.  As  for  Macdonald,  though  he  did 
not  understand  all  she  did,  he  knew  that  never  had  the  house 
been  so  pleasant  to  live  in.  Ah  1  it  had  been  blessed  by  the 
sunshine  of  a  sweet  woman's  presence  only  long  enough  to  make 
the  desolation  more  awful  to  bear. 

These  frivolities  about  the  outside  of  Dalmore  did  not  please 
Ellen  Macleod.  '  Any  cottar  can  cover  his  walls  with  roses,' 
she  said  to  herself,  thinking  they  detracted  from  the  dignity 
of  Dalmore.  She  hesitated  at  the  open  door,  not  knowing 
why  she  should  hesitate.  Her  hand  even  was  on  the  bell  to 
announce  her  presence ;  but,  with  a  short  laugh,  she  hastily 
recovered  herself,  and  walked  in.  Why  should  she  crave 
admission  to  Dalmore  ?  She  knew  where  she  would  be  likely 
to  find  her  brother,  but  she  elected  to  seek  her  way  to  the 
drawing-room,  possibly  to  see  what  changes  the  new  wife  had 
wrought  there.  She  scarcely  knew  the  room,  though  the 
furnishings  were  the  same  ;  but  the  things  were  all  shifted 
from  the  places  they  had  occupied  for  a  hundred  years  or  more, 
and  there  were  some  pert,  new-fangled  little  chairs  and  tables 
standing  in  every  odd  corner,  and  so  many  plants  and  cut 
flowers  that  it  was  more  like  a  greenhouse  than  the  sober 
reception-room  at  Dalmore.  The  faded  moreen  curtains  were 
all  removed  from  the  windows,  and  in  their  place  hangings  of 
some  dainty  Indian  muslin,  tied  back  with  broad  bands  of 
bright  yellow  ribbon,  swayed  to  and  fro  in  the  gentle  autumn 
wind.  But,  worst  of  all,  there  was  a  fine  new  piano,  a  semi- 
grand,  with  a  beautifully  inlaid  ebony  case,  open,  as  the  poor 


ESTRANGED.  97 

lady  had  left  it,  with  her  music  scattered  about,  and  a  piece 
even  on  the  rack  above  the  keys. 

Ellen  Macleod  had  the  curiosity  to  go  forward  and  look  at 
the  maker's  name,  and  when  she  saw  it  was  an  Erard  she 
frowned,  knowing  what  it  must  have  cost. 

'  Oh,  what  a  fool  he  must  have  been,  when  he  allowed  all 
this  I '  she  muttered  to  herself,  as  she  took  a  final  survey  of  the 
room  ere  she  left  it,  though  she  did  not  know  it,  for  the  last 
time.  '  I'll  sweep  away  all  that  flimsy  nonsense,  and  send  back 
the  plants  to  their  proper  place.  I  hope  she  hasn't  torn  up  the 
good  moreen  curtains,  that  cost  a  guinea  a  yard  if  they  cost  a 
penny.' 

She  drew  the  door  behind  her,  and,  sweeping  majestically 
downstairs,  made  her  way  to  the  library  door. 

In  the  hall  Anne  Ross  met  her,  and  stared  in  blank  amaze- 
ment. But  Mrs.  Macleod,  without  deigning  to  notice  her, 
turned  the  door-handle  of  the  library  door,  and  marched  in. 
Macdonald  was  sitting  at  his  escritoire,  with  his  back  to  the 
door. 

At  the  first  glance  his  sister  was  struck  by  his  bent  shoulders 
and  the  greyness  of  his  hair.  From  behind  he  looked  like  an 
old  man. 

She  had  advanced  into  the  room  before  he  turned  his  head. 
When  he  did  look  round,  he  rose  at  once,  pushed  his  chair  to 
one  side,  and  looked  her  straight  in  the  face.  There  was  neither 
recognition  nor  friendliness  in  that  look. 

*  Well,'  he  said  curtly,  'what  do  you  want?' 

The  brief,  keen  question,  the  icy  coldness  of  his  manner,  and 
the  flash  in  his  deep-set  eye,  were  slightly  disconcerting  to  Ellen 
MacJeod,  though  she  was  not  a  timid  woman. 

'You  needn't  snap  my  head  off,  Macdonald,'  she  said,  with 
admirable  coolness,  and  sitting  down  as  she  spoke.  '  I've  come 
to  talk  matters  over  with  you.' 

'What  matters?' 

'  Family  affairs,  of  course.  I  was  sorry  to  hear  of  your  loss, 
though  you  may  not  believe  it.' 

A  slight,  very  slight,  smile,  which  had  nothing  pleasant  in  it, 
7 


98  SHEILA. 

curled  Macdonald's  straight  upper  lip.  It  was  all  the  answer  or 
thanks  she  received.  *  I  have  no  family  affairs  to  discuss  with 
you,  Ellen,'  he  said  briefly.  '  So  you  have  had  your  walk  in 
vain.' 

'  You  have  not  been  very  civil  to  me  at  this  time,  Macdonald,' 
said  Ellen  Macleod,  determined  to  take  a  high  hand  or  none. 
'  I  say  nothing  about  not  receiving  any  notice  of  the  event,  or 
about  the  slight  put  upon  me  by  your  asking  a  stranger  to 
dispense  your  hospitalities  at  this  time.  I  have  nothing  against 
Lady  Murray ;  I  know  her  to  be  a  kind  friend  both  in  sickness 
and  health ;  but  whatever  difference  was  between  us,  Macdonald, 
my  place  was  to  be  at  Dalmore  on  Friday.' 

Macdonald's  brow  darkened,  his  lips  twitched,  and  his  nostrils 
dilated  with  the  passion  he  was  trying  to  hold  and  curb.  It 
was  her  memory  which  helped  him  in  this  moment  of  keen 
trial. 

'  Ellen,'  he  said,  and  his  voice  shook  with  the  very  violence 
of  the  effort  he  was  making  to  restrain  his  anger,  'I  wish  to 
have  no  words  with  you,  and  I  cannot  conceive  for  what 
reason  you  should  have  forced  yourself  upon  me  at  this  time. 
You  had  better  go  quickly  away  back  to  Shonnen.  I  am 
quite  capable  of  managing  my  own  affairs  without  your 
interference.' 

But  Ellen  Macleod  had  no  such  intention.  She  had  been  so 
accustomed  in  the  past  to  her  brother's  fits  of  anger  and  to  his 
use  of  strong  language,  that  his  moderate  speech  and  apparent 
calmness  completely  deceived  her. 

'I  don't  want  to  interfere  with  your  management  of  your 
affairs.  I  only  want  to  know  something  of  your  plans.  I 
suppose  the  child  will  go  back  to  the  Murrays?' 

•What  child?' 

'Your  wife's,  the  little  girl  Murray.  Her  father's  people 
will  be  going  to  take  her  ? ' 

«  What  is  that  to  you?  ' 

'  Oh,  nothing  much,  of  course.  If  you  are  going  to  keep  her 
for  a  while,  of  course  I  have  no  business,  and  I'll  do  my  duty 
by  her.' 


ESTRANGED.  99 

«  You  will?' 

'Yes.  Don't  be  a  fool,  Macdonald.  You  cannot  be  con- 
templating anything  so  absurd  as  to  live  here  alone  when  I  am 
alone  at  Shonnen.  The  sooner  we  slip  back  into  the  old  way 
the  better.  It  will  be  in  your  interest  as  well  as  mine.' 

'I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  but  it  will  be  better  for  us 
both,  now  that  we  are  apart,  to  keep  so,'  he  said  quietly,  though 
he  was  tempted  to  express  himself  much  more  strongly.  'If 
any  good  feeling  has  prompted  you  to  come  here  to-day,  I 
thank  you  for  it,  and  I  wish  you  good-day.' 

Ellen  Macleod  rose  to  her  feet.  Amazement,  indignation, 
incredulity  possessed  her. 

'  Do  you  mean  to  say  I  am  not  to  come  back  to  Dalmore, 
Macdonald ;  that  the  place  is  to  be  at  the  rnercy  of  servants  ? 
You  don't  know  what  you  are  doing.  They'll  devour  your 
substance,  and  rob  you  right  and  left.  Have  you  taken  leave 
of  your  senses  ? ' 

'  No,  but  you  evidently  have/  he  said  angrily.  '  Do  you 
know,  that  for  you  to  come  here  after — after  all  that  is  past ' 
(he  dared  not  mention  his  wife's  name),  '  expecting  to  be  even 
civilly  spoken  to,  is  a  height  of  presumption  I  scarcely  imagined 
even  you  to  be  capable  of?  While  I  am  in  my  right  mind, 
Ellen  Macleod,  you  shall  never  enter  this  house  as  resident  or 
guest,  though  you  are  my  sister.  You  have  never  acted  a 
sister's  part  to  me.* 

Ellen  Macleod's  long  thin  lips  grew  pale  with  passion.  Her 
hot  Highland  blood  was  up.  She  positively  glared  at  the  cold, 
calm  countenance  of  her  brother,  as  if  she  could  have  slain 
him  where  he  stood. 

'  So  this  is  what  Edith  Murray,  with  her  sneaking  ways,  has 
done  ?  I  shall  be  hearing  next  that  Dalmore  is  to  go  to  her 
child'— 

'  Hold  your  tongue  I  How  dare  you  take  that  name  on  your 
lips?'  thundered  Macdonald,  his  face  purple  with  righteous 
anger,  his  eyes  flashing,  and  the  veins  on  his  forehead 
standing  out  like  knotted  cords.  '  The  place  she  sanctified, 
and  made  a  home  such  as  it  never  was,  and  never  will 


ioo  SHEILA. 

be  again,  is  desecrated  with  your  presence.  Get  out  of  my 
sight,  woman!  lest  I  forget  myself,  and  lift  my  hand  against 
you.' 

4  Well,  I  go,  but  I  leave  my  curse  upon  you  and  Dalmore  I ' 
she  almost  screamed ;  for  her  anger  had  risen  to  white  heat,  and, 
gathering  her  skirts  in  her  hand,  she  swept  out  of  the  room. 
As  she  slammed  the  door  after  her,  a  thrill  of  childish  laughter 
came  in  through  the  open  door,  and,  as  she  stepped  into  the 
hall,  Sheila,  with  her  hands  full  of  wild  flowers,  came  dancing 
in.  She  stopped  short  at  sight  of  the  tall,  dark-browed  woman, 
sweeping  like  a  Nemesis  through  the  hall.  At  sight  of  the 
sweet,  innocent  baby  face  uplifted  in  wonder  upon  her,  an  evil 
spirit  seemed  to  enter  into  Ellen  Macleod,  and,  lifting  her  hand, 
she  gave  the  child  a  blow  on  her  bare  white  shoulder,  which 
made  her  scream  out  in  terror  and  pain.  Aunt  Ailsa,  who  had 
been  up  Crom  Creagh  with  her  little  pet,  and  had  but  lingered 
at  the  door  to  pick  some  dead  buds  from  Edith's  rose-trees, 
appeared  in  the  doorway,  and  saw  the  act. 

'May  God  forgive  you,  Ellen  Macleod  1 '  she  said,  her  fair  face 
flushing  in  shame  and  anger.  'You  are  a  cruel,  wicked 
woman  1  * 

Then  she  sprang  forward,  and  gathered  the  bairn  close  to  her 
sweet,  motherly  breast,  and  pressed  her  loving  lips  to  the  red 
mark  Ellen  Macleod's  cruel  hand  had  made.  Macdonald  heard 
the  scream,  and  came  out  into  the  hall  just  as  Lady  Ailsa  had 
lifted  Sheila  in  her  arms. 

*  What  is  it  ? '  he  asked ;  and  at  sound  of  her  father's  voice 
Sheila  raised  her  tearful  face,  and  pointed  to  her  arm. 

'  Oh,  papa  I  a  black  woman  struck  me.  I  am  so  frightened.' 
Macdonald  took  the  child  in  his  arms,  and  bent  his  dark  face 
OVCT  her.  Ailsa  Murray  saw  that  his  features  were  still  work- 
ing convulsively,  and  that  he  seemed  under  the  influence  of 
strong  feeling.  She  surmised  that  a  stormy  interview  had  just 
passed  between  the  brother  and  sister,  but  her  delicacy  pre- 
vented her  alluding  to  it. 

Macdonald  himself  broke  the  awkward  silence. 

*  Edith  bade  me  keep  the  bairn  away  from  Ellen  Macleod 


ESTRANGED.  101 

Ailsa,*  he  said ;  '  and,  God  knows,  she  had  need.  She  is  a 
fearful  woman.' 

Lady  Ailsa  sighed,  and  followed  Macdonald  to  the  library. 
The  occurrence  had  made  an  opportunity  for  her  to  speak 
concerning  Sheila's  future. 

'  It  is  time  I  was  home,  Macdonald.  My  boys  are  wearying 
for  me  and  for  Sheila.  She  is  expected  at  Murrayshaugh.' 

'Is  she?' 

Lady  Ailsa  fancied  Macdonald's  arms  tightened  round  the 
child,  who  clung  to  him  with  a  confidence  which  had  no  fear 
in  it. 

'  Sir  Douglas  and  I  have  discussed  the  matter.  We  will 
adopt  Sheila,  and  you  know  she  will  be  like  our  own.' 

'^fou  are  very  kind,  but  Sheila  belongs  to  me.' 

Lady  Ailsa  looked  a  little  put  out.  '  If  there  is  any  chance 
of  your  sister  coming  even  occasionally  to  Dalmore,  I  am  afraid 
I  must  insist  on  taking  Sheila  away,'  she  said  firmly.  '  I  can- 
not have  her  subjected —  to — that.' 

'You  need  not  be  afraid.  Ellen  Macleod  has  set  foot  for 
the  last  time  in  Dalmore.  Edith  left  the  child  to  me,  but  if 
it  will  please  you  better,  Sheila  herself  shall  decide.' 

He  sat  down,  and  placed  Sheila  on  his  knee.  She  was  not 
much  hurt,  and  her  sobbing  had  ceased. 

'  Listen  to  me,  bairn,'  he  said.  '  Aunt  Ailsa  is  going  away 
home,  and  she  wants  to  take  you  away  to  Murrayshaugh  to 
live  altogether.' 

Sheila  gravely  nodded. 

'  You  will  have  a  great  many  advantages  there,  my  bairn, 
for  Aunt  Ailsa  loves  you  very  much,  and  you  would  have 
your  cousins  to  play  with.  Dalmore  is  a  very  dull  place. 
There  is  only  me.' 

4  And  Fergus,'  put  in  Sheila  promptly.  '  Do  you  want  me 
to  go  away,  papa  ? ' 

'No,  Sheila.  I  want  you  to  choose  for  yourself,'  was  all 
he  said,  and  would  not  tempt  her  even  by  one  persuasive  or 
endearing  word. 

Sheila  sat  up,  as  if  she  felt  the  gravity  of  the  moment.     She 


io  a 


SHEILA. 


looked  towards  Aunt  Ailsa,  who  was  standing  by  the  table, 
with  a  slightly  expectant  smile  on  her  face.  Then  she  looked 
at  Macdonald's  grave,  stern  face,  which  was  ploughed  with  the 
lines  of  grief,  and  as  if  some  intuition  told  her  who  needed  her 
most,  she  put  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  hid  her  face  on  his 
broad  breast 

Sheila's  choice  was  made. 


CHAPTER  XL 


A   WILT    PLOTTER. 

No  means  too  humble,  road  too  steep, 
For  when  he  cannot  walk,  he'll  creep. 

J.  B.  G.  SELKIRK. 

HE  month  of  October  came.  Peter  Crerar  began 
the  teaching  in  Achnafauld  again,  but  Fergus 
Macleod  was  not  sent  to  share  the  advantages  of 
the  Fauld  school.  Neither  were  the  lessons  at  the 
manse  renewed,  and  time  hung  heavily  enough  on  his  hands. 
The  schools  were  all  open  in  Perth  for  the  winter  session,  and 
Ellen  Macleod  had  quite  determined  that  Fergus  should  go  to 
Perth,  but  she  could  not  surmount  the  difficulty  of  getting 
backward  and  forward  to  Shonnen.  It  was  impossible  the 
boy  could  walk  the  distance  between  Dunkeld  and  Amulree 
twice  a  day  after  the  train  had  brought  him  from  Perth ;  and 
she  was  in  a  dilemma.  Donald,  the  pony,  was  still  eating  his 
head  off  in  Dalmore  stable,  never  out  except  when  Sheila 
occasionally  got  on  his  back.  All  communication  had  ceased 
between  Shonnen  and  Dalmore.  After  all  the  excitement  and 
the  stir  of  the  mournful  event  was  over,  an  unbroken  stillness 
settled  down  on  Dalmore.  Ellen  Macleod  had  never  seen  her 
brother  since  that  fruitless  visit  to  Dalmore,  but  she  heard  them 
say  he  was  a  changed  man.  He  was  seldom  seen  out  of  doors, 
and  Jessie  told  her  that  the  housemaid  at  Dalmore  assured  her 


104  SHEILA. 

the  Laird  seldom  left  the  house.  Many  pitied  the  motherless 
little  girl,  left  in  the  care  of  such  a  moody,  miserable  man : 
but  they  might  have  spared  their  pity,  for  she  was  perfectly 
happy.  Macdonald  unbent  only  to  her,  and  the  two  seemed  to 
have  come  to  a  most  perfect  and  beautiful  understanding.  She 
missed  Fergus  very  much,  it  is  true,  and  often  spoke  of  him,  but 
her  father  did  not  encourage  her.  For  the  time  being  there 
was  a  firm,  fast  barrier  drawn  betwixt  Shonnen  and  Dalmore. 

Angus  M'Bean,  always  on  the  look  -  out,  and  cognisant 
of  everything  going  on  in  the  country  -  side,  got  to  know  of 
the  strait  Mrs.  Macleod  was  in  about  her  boy's  education, 
and  made  a  nice  little  plan,  which  was  to  relieve  her 
and  be  of  ultimate  benefit  to  himself.  In  the  factor's 
eyes  Fergus  Macleod  was  the  future  Laird  of  Dalmore,  and, 
as  such,  a  person  of  no  mean  importance.  So,  having  laid 
his  plan,  Angus  M'Bean  made  bold  to  walk  over  to  Shonnen, 
one  fine,  hard  night,  to  have  a  little  private  talk  with  Mrs. 
Macleod.  The  factor  was  a  very  diplomatic  man,  and  it  was 
his  policy  never  to  quarrel  with  anybody.  The  cottars  could 
not,  with  truth,  say  they  had  ever  seen  him  in  a  passion,  but 
he  had  a  cold,  pitiless  way  of  getting  the  better  of  every  one 
who  argued  with  him,  that  they  feared  him  quite  as  much  as 
if  he  gave  way  to  anger.  Now,  though  Angus  M'Bean  was 
employed  in  and  supposed  to  be  devoted  to  the  Laird's  interests, 
it  was  to  his  ultimate  ^advantage  to  keep  on  good  terms  with 
the  lady  at  Shonnen,  and  therefore  he  determined  to  be  of 
service  to  her  in  this  difficulty  if  he  could. 

*  Good-evening,  Mr.  M'Bean,'  said  Ellen  Macleod,  greeting 
him  very  cordially,  for  it  was  a  rare  occurrence  to  see  a  face 
from  tho  outer  world  in  the  solitude  of  Shonnen.  '  I  hope  you 
are  all  well  at  Auchloy  ? ' 

'All  very  well,  thank  you.  How  are  you,  Mr.  Fergus?  A 
big,  tall  gentleman  he  has  grown  of  late,  hasn't  he,  ma'am  ? ' 

'There's  nothing  to  hinder  his  growth,'  said  his  mother. 
'  Pull  in  the  arm-chair  for  Mr.  M'Bean,  Fergus,  and  go  to  your 
lessons.  There  is  frost  in  the  air  to-night,  surely;  it  feels 
chilly.' 


A   WILY  PLOTTED.  105 

'Ay,  it  is  taking  in  the  roads  already,'  said  M'Bean,  as  he 
stretched  out  his  hands  to  the  cheerful  tire.  '  We  have  long, 
cold  winters  in  the  strath.' 

'  Cold  enough,'  answered  Mrs.  Macleod,  resuming  her 
knitting.  'Anything  fresh  about  Auchloy  or  Achnafauld  ? ' 

'Nothing  in  Auchloy,  but  there's  aye  a  stir  in  the  Fauld,' 
laughed  the  factor.  '  I  have  come  for  a  little  talk  with  you, 
if  you  will  kindly  grant  me  the  privilege,  Mrs.  Macleod.' 

'Surely.  Take  your  books  to  the  kitchen  beside  Jessie 
Mackenzie,  Fergus,  and  stay  till  I  bid  you  come  back.' 

Nothing  loth — for  he  had  no  special  regard  for  the  factor — 
Fergus  gathered  up  his  books  and  retired. 

'  A  fine,  tall,  handsome  fellow,'  repeated  Angus  M'Bean. 
1  He'll  be  a  man  in  no  time.  He  is  pursuing  his  studies  at 
home,  I  see.  Perhaps  he  did  not  get  much  advantage  from 
Peter  Crerar  ? ' 

1  Oh,  he  learned  well  enough  at  the  Fauld  school,  but  it 
could  not  go  on,  Mr.  M'Bean,'  said  Ellen  Macleod  significantly, 
'  and  he  had  spirit  enough  not  to  like  it.  It's  not  a  convenient 
place  this  for  bringing  up  children  in.' 

'  That's  just  what  I  feeL  We've  been  positively  in  a  fix 
about  our  own  Angus,'  said  the  factor.  '  He  hates  Peter 
Crerar,  and  was  learning  nothing  from  him.  We  have  made 
up  our  minds  to  send  him  to  Perth  Academy,  and  he  goes  down 
on  Monday.' 

4  And  how  are  you  to  manage  with  him  ?  He  cannot  come 
home  every  day,*  said  Ellen  Macleod,  laying  down  her  knitting, 
and  looking  with  interest  at  the  factor. 

'  Oh  no,  ma'am ;  that  would  be  impossible.  He  is  to  bide 
in  Perth.  We  have  taken  lodgings  for  him  with  a  respectable, 
genteel  person,  a  widow  woman  who  has  come  down  in  the 
world.  And  I  made  bold  to  come  over  to-night,  to  see  if  you 
would  not  consider  whether  the  lads  could  not  go  together  and 
share  the  lodging.  They  have  always  been  very  friendly,'  said 
the  factor,  stretching  a  point,  for  '  Puddin"  was  always  run- 
ning down  Fergus  Macleod  at  Auchloy.  '  Of  course.'  added 
M'Bean  modestly,  'we  feel  that  he  would  be  greatly  honoured 


io6  SHEILA. 

in  having  Mr.  Fergus  for  a  school  companion,  and  if  it  is 
presumptuous  on  my  part  to  make  the  suggestion,  I  ask  your 
pardon.  But  I  said  to  Mrs.  M'Bean,  "  Whatever  may  have 
happened,  we  still  owe  respect  to  Mrs.  Macleod,  and  if  we 
can  be  of  service  to  her,  it  need  not  interfere  with  our  duty  in 
other  quarters."' 

'  You  are  a  good  man,  and  a  kind  friend,  Angus  M'Bean/ 
said  Ellen  Macleod  quickly,  '  and  I  shall  gratefully  accept  your 
offer  for  my  son.  Although  circumstances  are  changed  with 
me,  I  am  thankful  to  say  it  will  not  stint  me  to  pay  the  half  of 
the  lodging,  and  one  day  I  hope  to  repay  your  kindness  in  a 
more  substantial  way  than  by  words  of  thanks.' 

'  Don't  speak  of  it,  ma'am,  I  entreat  you,'  said  M'Bean 
effusively.  '  The  kindness  and  the  honour  received  are  all  on 
one  side.  So  that  is  settled  ;  and,  if  quite  convenient  for  you, 
I  can  drive  Mr.  Fergus,  with  his  trunk,  down  with  Angus  on 
Monday  afternoon.  I  am  to  go  in  to  Perth  to  see  them  nicely 
settled,  and  if  you  would  care  to  go,  ma'am ' — 

'  Oh  no,  thank  you.  I  have  the  fullest  confidence  in  you, 
Mr.  M'Bean.  You  have  relieved  my  mind  of  a  heavy  load. 
That  I  should  have  to  say  that  the  Laird  of  Dalmore  has  cast 
off  the  responsibility  of  his  sister's  fatherless  boy  1 ' 

'Ah  well,  ma'am,  you  see,  when  strangers  step  in,  the 
consequences  are  always  more  or  less  disastrous,'  said  M'Bean 
sympathetically.  '  When  the  Laird  honoured  me  with  his 
confidence  anent  his  marriage,  I  made  bold,  though  respect- 
fully, as  a  servant  should,  to  warn  him  against  these  conse- 
quences. But  a  wilful  man  must  have  his  way.' 

It  cost  Angus  M'Bean  no  effort  or  qualm  of  conscience  to  tell 
a  good,  straightforward  lie ;  for  the  Laird  had  never  alluded  to 
his  marriage  to  the  factor  even  in  the  most  distant  way,  and 
as  to  listening  to  his  advice,  had  it  been  proffered,  he  might 
have  knocked  him  into  the  Girron  burn,  provided  it  had  been 
at  hand. 

Ellen  Macleod — shrewd,  keen,  clever  woman  though  she  was 
— was  completely  taken  in  by  the  smooth-tongued  factor,  whom 
even  Fergus  disliked  and  distrusted. 


A   WILY  PLOTTER.  107 

'The  Laird  seems  to  have  made  a  hermit  of  himself  since  his 
wife's  death,'  she  said  presently.  '  He  is  not  taking  that 
interest  in  his  affairs  incumbent  upon  him.' 

'No.  I  have  said  to  my  wife  more  than  once  that  I  would 
not  be  surprised  to  see  a  new  laird  in  Dalmore  before  very 
long,'  said  M'Bean  cautiously,  and  keeping  his  eye  furtively 
fixed  on  the  face  of  the  woman  before  him. 

She  started  visibly. 

1  Is  my  brother  ill  in  his  health,  Mr.  M'Bean  ?  In  spite  of  his 
unbrotherly  treatment  of  me,  which  I  cannot  think  you  are 
ignorant  of,  I  have  a  sisterly  interest  in  him.  I  pray  you,  tell 
me  how  he  is.' 

4  He  has  no  positive  ailment,  except  brooding  over  his  loss. 
But  we  know  what  happens  when  a  strong  man  gives  up  his 
interest  out  of  doors,  and  sits  perpetually  in  the  house.  You 
have  not  seen  him  of  late,  then  ? ' 

'  No ;  for  Sabbath  after  Sabbath  the  Dalmore  pew  is  empty, 
save  for  the  child  and  her  nurse,'  said  Ellen  Macleod,  com- 
pressing her  thin  lips  till  they  were  like  a  thread. 

Angus  M'Bean  saw  at  once  where  the  sore  spot  lay,  and 
treasured  it  in  his  mind  for  future  consideration. 

'  He  looks  much  older,  then.  You  would  scarcely  know 
him.  Forgive  my  presumption,  but  it  is  out  of  respect  for 
the  house  I  speak.  It  is  a  shame  that  Alastair  Murray's 
child  should  enjoy  the  privileges  of  Dalmore,  while  its  rightful 
heir  learns  his  lessons  beside  the  kitchen  fire  in  a  place  like 
this.' 

Ellen  Macleod's  colour  rose  hotly,  and  her  lips  twitched. 
It  was  such  a  relief  to  allude  to  the  wrong  which  was  eating 
her  heart  out,  that  she  forgot  her  usual  haughty  pride,  and 
spoke  out  freely  to  a  servant. 

'  Ay  ;  it  is,  as  you  say,  a  shame  and  a  black  disgrace  ! '  she 
said  fiercely.  '  But  do  you  think  that  for  this  no  punishment 
will  fall  on  Dalmore  ?  Heaven  is  more  just  than  men,  so  let 
that  white-faced  girl  beware.  And  let  the  Murrays  watch 
themselves  also,  if  they  think  to  feather  their  nest  from 
Dalmore.' 


io8  SHEILA. 

1  It  is  a  sad  and  difficult  case,  ma'am  ;  and  though  I  am 
bound  to  do  the  Laird's  work  outside,  my  sympathies  and 
service  are  at  your  command,'  said  the  factor  impressively. 
'  There  is  no  way  whereby  this  child  could  be  removed  from 
Dalmore  ? ' 

*  No  ;  but  if  Macdonald's  health  is  failing  he  must  be  watched, 
Angus  M'Bean,  or  these  vultures  from  Murrayshaugh  will  get 
Dalmore  among  their  fingers.' 

'  Oh  no,  Mrs.  Macleod ;  the  Laird  will  never  put  Dalmore 
past  your  son.' 

'  Will  he  not  ?  I  tell  you  he  is  fit  enough  to  leave  it  to  his 
wife's  child.  He  has  been  a  fool  ever  since  he  married — a 
soft,  silly  fool ;  and  he  worshipped  her  as  no  human  being 
should  worship  another,  and  so,  in  righteous  wrath,  Heaven  took 
her  away.  /  am  perfectly  powerless,  Angus  M'Bean,  so 
you  must  watch  over  the  interest  and  the  honour  of  Dalmore. 
And  if  my  son  ever  comes  to  his  own,  you  shall  not  be 
forgotten.' 

'I  am  honoured  by  your  confidence,  ma'am.  Rest  assured  it 
is  not  misplaced,'  said  the  factor,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet.  *  I 
hope,  however,  that  the  Laird  will  never  do  anything  so  un- 
befitting a  Macdonald.' 

Ellen  Macleod  shook  her  head. 

*  My  confidence  in  him  is  destroyed/  she  said.     '  Tell  me,  Mr. 
M'Bean,  how  matters  are  on  the  estate.     Jessie,  my  maid,  tells 
me  the  cottars  in  the  Fauld  are  grumbling  a  good  deal.' 

'  True  enough.  They  are  an  ill-conditioned  set.  Goodness 
knows  what  demands  they'll  have  at  rent-day  this  year. 
Donald  Macalpine  wants  a  new  smiddy,  and  the  precentor  a 
roof  on  his  byre ;  and  that  body,  Janet  Menzies,  is  to  ask  her 
rent  down  because  she's  got  Jock's  bairnies  home.  A  pack  of 
wolves,  Mrs.  Macleod.  They'd  tear  Dalmore  to  pieces,  and 
fight  over  its  division.  If  I  had  my  way,  I'd  clean  out  the 
whole  clachan.' 

1  That'll  never  be,'  said  Ellen  Macleod,  shaking  her  head. 
'  Time  sare  indeed  changed  from  what  they  were  in  my  father, 
the  old  Laird's  time.  They  said  he  was  a  hard  man,  and  yet 


A   WILY  PLOTTER.  109 

there  never  was  a  grumble  from  a  tenant  in  the  place.  I 
would  like  to  ask  the  cottars  in  Achnafauld  how  they  would 
like  to  pay  tithes  in  kind  over  and  above  their  rents,  as  they 
do  in  Shian  and  all  up  the  glen  to  Kannoch.  I  think  myself 
they  need  a  harder  hand  than  Macdonald's  on  them.  There 
must  be  money  in  the  Fauld.' 

'  Money  I  Thousands  of  pounds,  if  there's  a  penny.  It's 
an  unholy  greed  that's  got  possession  of  them,  and  I'm  of 
your  opinion,  that  the  Laird's  too  soft  with  them.  I  can  tell 
you,  Mrs.  Macleod,  I  don't  eat  the  bread  of  ease.  You'll 
not  hear  a  good  word  of  me  from  one  end  of  the  glen  to  the 
other.' 

With  which  remarkably  true  statement,  delivered  in  a 
tone  of  injured  but  conscious  virtue  and  innocence,  Mr. 
Angus  M'Bean  took  his  leave,  well  pleased  with  his  night's 
mission.  But  he  would  need  to  go  very  warily,  and  not 
lose  sight  of  his  interest  with  Macdonald.  There  is  always 
danger  in  the  way  of  the  man  who  tries  to  sit  between  two 
stools. 

So  the  difficulty  about  Fergus's  schooling  was  solved  very 
satisfactorily — for  his  mother,  at  least.  The  boy  himself 
received  the  first  intimation  of  it  from  Puddin',  whom  he  met 
late  on  the  Saturday  afternoon  on  the  Corrymuckloch  road. 
Now  that  the  fishing  was  over,  Fergus  wearied,  and  the  weather 
was  getting  cold  for  Sheila,  and  so  they  kept  tryst  but  seldom 
at  the  Girron  Brig.  The  boy  used  to  haunt  the  road  below 
Dalmore,  hoping  for  a  sight  of  his  uncle  ;  but  the  familiar  sight 
of  graceful  Mora  and  her  stalwart  rider  was  not  often  seen  now 
about  Amulree. 

Puddin'  was  riding,  but  drew  rein  straight  before  Fergus, 
grinning  broadly. 

'  So  we're  gaun'  to  Perth  schule,  you  an'  me,  on  Monday,' 
he  said  in  the  broad  Scotch  which  sometimes  vexed  his  father, 
Who  yearned  after  gentility. 

'It's  a  lie,'  said  Fergus,  with  the  plain,  unvarnished  candour 
«f  one  boy  to  another. 

'No,   it's  no'.     You  ask  yer  mither.       It's  the  veru  same 


i  io  SHEILA. 

lodgin's.  It's  a'  settled,'  said  Puddin',  grinning  still.  'They 
raicht  ha'e  asked  us  whether  or  no'  first.' 

1 1  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,  Puddin'  M'Bean ;  and  if  it  is 
true,  I  won't  go,'  said  Fergus  serenely,  and  went  away  whistling, 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  thinking  the  joke  was  one  of 
Puddin's  feeblest  attempts.  For  they  had  been  such  bad 
friends  at  Achnafauld  that  the  idea  of  occupying  the  same 
lodgings  seemed  the  height  of  absurdity.  Fergus  passed  on  to 
the  brig,  stood  by  the  parapet  for  a  few  minutes  watching  the 
steady  flow  of  the  burn,  growing  big  with  the  first  of  the 
'spates,'  and  then,  without  thinking  very  much  what  he  was 
doing,  crossed  over,  and  began  to  ascend  the  hill  to  Dalmore. 
I  believe  Dalmore  was  never  a  moment  out  of  the  laddie's 
heart.  He  thought  of  it  in  his  waking  hours,  and  dreamed  of 
it  when  he  slept.  He  loved  that  place  above  anything  in  the 
world.  He  went  on  and  on.  Colin  met  him  at  the  head  of 
the  approach  with  a  joyous  bark,  and  bounded  before  him  into 
the  house.  Hearing  the  unusual  noise,  Tory  took  up  the 
chorus  in  the  drawing-room,  and  Sheila  came  running  down 
to  see  what  the  commotion  was. 

'  Oh,  Fergus,  Fergus !  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  1 '  she  cried, 
her  face  all  aglow  with  delight.  '  Oh,  come  in,  and  I'll 
tell  papa.  How  nice  it  is  to  see  you,  Fergus  1  Come  away 
in.' 

She  clasped  her  two  hands  through  his  arm,  and  looked  up 
into  his  face  with  perfect  adoration  in  her  eyes.  Dear  bairns, 
how  they  loved  each  other  I  They  knew  nothing  of  jealousy, 
and  hate,  and  dissension.  Oh  that  they  could  remain  ignorant 
of  them  for  ever  1 

'  It  seems  so  long  since  I  saw  you,  Fergus.  Why  don't  you 
come  up  ?  When  I  see  Colin  trotting  over  to  Shonnen,  I  wish 
he  could  speak  and  tell  you  to  come.' 

'  You  never  come  down  to  the  brig,  though,'  said  Fergus 
reproachfully. 

'  Aunt  Ailsa  was  up,  Fergus,  and  she  told  Anne  Ross  not  to 
let  me  out  when  there  was  any  wet  on  the  grass,  so  I  have  just 
to  play  cattie  and  doggie  with  Tory  in  the  drawing-room. 


A   WILY  PLOTTER.  in 

Tory  is  a  very  funny  little  dog,  but  I'd  rather  be   out  with 
you.' 

*  I  should  think  so.     Is  Uncle  Graham  in  ? ' 

'  Yes ;  it  will  soon  be  tea-time.  Fapa  always  has  tea  with 
me,  and  then  I  have  dinner  with  him.  And  is  it  true  you  are 
going  away  to  school  on  Monday  ? ' 

4 1  never  heard  of  it  till  this  very  day.  Puddin'  M'Bean  told 
me.  I  met  him  at  the  brig  just  now.  He  says  I'm  to  live  in 
his  lodgings,'  said  Fergus  laughingly.  '  Hulloa,  Tory !  He's 
far  bigger,  Sheila,  and  far  too  fat.  A  lazy  rascal,  isn't  he  ? ' 

'  Oh  no.  Here's  papa.  Isn't  it  nice,  papa  ?  Fergus  has 
come,  and  we'll  have  tea  together,'  said  Sheila,  running  to 
meet  Macdonald,  and  taking  him  by  the  hand. 

Fergus  ran  to  meet  his  uncle,  too,  and  was  struck  by 
his  aged  appearance  and  by  the  melancholy  expression  on  his 
face. 

*  Well,  Fergus,  lad,  glad  to  see  you.     I  was  saying  to  Sheila 
to-day  you'd  be  up  to  say  good-bye.     So  Puddin'  and  you  have 
buried  past  grievances,  and  are  going  to  keep  each  other  com- 
pany in  Perth  ?     A  very  sensible  arrangement.     You  can  have 
a  set-to  when  the  lessons  weary  you.' 

'Uncle  Graham,'  cried  Fergus  hotly,  'I  never  heard  a 
thing  about  it.  I  can't  be  going,  or  I  would  have  known.' 

But  even  as  he  spoke  he  remembered  noticing  a  kind  of 
extra  work  going  on  at  Shonnen,  and  a  great  turning  out  and 
mending  of  clothes. 

'May  be  not,  boy.  It  was  the  factor  who  told  me  it 
was  all  arranged ;  but  surely  your  mother  would  have  told 
you.' 

The  boy's  face  flushed,  and  he  dashed  away  a  bitter  tear 
which  started  in  his  eye.  Oh,  but  Ellen  Macleod  was  making 
a  grievous  and  terrible  mistake.  She  was  treating  the  boy  as 
if  he  were  a  machine,  a  thing  without  feeling  or  desire,  which 
she  could  move  about  at  will.  And  yet  she  expected  filial 
duty,  filial  affection,  and  respect  in  return. 

She  frequently  reminded  Fergus  of  the  scriptural  injunction 
to  children  concerning  their  duty  to  their  parents,  but  forgot 


ii2  SHEILA. 

to  take  to  her  own  soul,  for  her  guiding,  the  corresponding 
injunction  to  parents. 

From  the  beginning  her  training  of  the  boy  was  a  mistake. 
She  had  the  making  or  marring  of  a  fine  character  in  her 
hands. 

Let  us  pray  it  may  not  be  completely  and  irretrievably 
marred. 


CHAPTER  XIL 


FACTOR    AND     LAIRD. 

Like  our  shadows,  our  wishes  lengthen  as  our  sun  declines. 

YOUNG. 


'VE  come  up  to  see  what  I'm  to  say  to  these  folks 
to-morrow,  sir,'  said  Angus  M'Bean  to  the  Laird 
in  the  library  at  Dalmore.  It  was  the  5th  of 
December,  and  the  snow  lay  two  feet  deep  on  the 
ground,  and  immense  drifts  stretched  from  side  to  side  of 
exposed  roads,  which  were  level  with  the  dry  stone  dykes. 
The  6th  of  December  was  the  rent-day  on  Findowie  and  Dal- 
more. Angus  M'Bean  had  quite  settled  in  his  inind  what  he 
was  to  say  to  the  malcontents,  but  of  course  it  behoved  him 
to  make  the  form  of  consulting  the  Laird.  Macdonald  had  but 
a  languid  interest  in  these  affairs.  He  was  indeed  a  changed 
man,  like  one  whose  interest  in  life  was  dead.  It  lay  buried 
with  his  love  in  the  old  graveyard  at  Shian. 

'Oh,  ay,  some  repairs  they  wanted.  What  are  they?' 
asked  Macdonald,  rousing  himself  up  when  the  factor  spoke. 
He  was  sitting,  as  he  would  sit  for  hours,  by  the  fire,  with  his 
elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  head  in  his  hands. 

'Donald  Macalpine  wants  a  new  smiddy,  no  less.  He  com- 
plains of  the  chimney — the  smoke  won't  go  up.  I  bade  him 
knock  a  brick  out  of  the  side.  He  says  it's  dark,  and  I  told 
him  to  knock  some  more  out  of  the  wall  opposite  the  door.' 


H4  SHEILA. 

'  A  new  smiddy ! '  said  the  Laird,  with  a  gnm  smile.  '  Less 
will  have  to  serve  Donald,  I  doubt,  in  these  hard  times. 
Could  we  not  repair  the  place  for  him  ? ' 

'No,  it  would  be  a  sinful  waste  of  money.  The  smiddy  is 
as  good  as  ever  it  was.  You  can  go  along  and  see  it  for  your- 
self. I'll  tell  you  what  I  think.  Donald  M'Glashan  has  made 
such  a  bonnie  penny  in  the  smiddy  that  he's  not  caring  about 
it  now.  Four  pound  ten  for  the  croft  and  the  smiddy  is  far 
too  little,  Laird,  according  as  they  are  paying  now.  The  rents 
are  rising  instead  of  falling  up  by  Killin  and  Rannoch.' 

'So  I'm  told.  Well,  you  can  say  to  Donald  if  he  isn't 
pleased  he  can  quit,'  said  the  Laird.  '  What  next  ? ' 

'Ewan  M'Fadyen's  byre.  Is  he  to  get  a  new  roof  on  it? 
There's  only  a  bit  hole  at  the  east  end  where  the  snow  can 
blow  through,  because  he  was  too  lazy  to  thaik  it  in  the  back 
end.  As  I  said  to  him,  "  Is  the  Laird  to  pay  money  out  of  his 
pocket  for  your  idle  habits  ?  "  He  maun  just  divot  it  until  next 
year,'  said  the  factor,  without  giving  the  Laird  time  to  put  in 
a  word.  'He  has  a  fine  crop  of  oats  this  year,  and  his  hay 
was  about  the  best;  then  he  has  five  pounds  from  the  kirk,  an' 
yet  he's  aye  seeking.  We'll  let  him  girn.  Jenny  Menzies  has 
got  two  bairns,  her  brother's  weans  from  Glasgow,  and  wants 
her  rent  down  a  pound  for  their  keep.  What  do  you  think 
of  that  for  Jenny,  Laird  ? ' 

'  Jenny's  gleg,'  said  the  Laird,  with  an  absent  smile.  '  I  heard 
of  the  bairns.  The  lad  is  a  trifle  queer,  and  not  strong.  No 
doubt  she'll  have  her  own  to  do  with  the  bairns.  Take  the 
pound  off.  What  next  ? ' 

'Sir,  I  don't  think  it  would  be  right  to  take  it  off 
Jenny  Menzies'  rent.  It's  very  moderate,  and  she  makes 
a  heap  by  her  spinning.  The  bairns  will  be  more  a  help 
than  a  hinder,  and  if  we  favour  her  the  rest  will  have  cause  to 
grumble.* 

'  Take  the  pound  off,'  repeated  the  Laird  quietly.  « What'i 
next?' 

'Bob  Macnaughton  is  for  a  roof  on  Rory  Macalpine's  old 
house  for  him  to  set  up  another  loom  in.  That  shows  how 
the  wind  blows.  They  count  nothing  on  the  land,  Laird,  and 


FACTOR  AND  LAIRD.  115 

use  your  houses  for  their  own  ends.     If  stocking-wearing  pays 
so  well,  let  them  build  houses  for  themselves,  say  I.' 

'Certainly,  certainly,'  said  the  Laird  quickly.  'I  hope 
that's  all,  M'Bean.  These  grumblings  weary  me.  It  is  only 
of  late  they  seem  to  have  arisen.  What  is  their  cause  ?  ' 

'Just  what  I've  often  said,  sir:  the  folk  have  gotten  into 
idle,  fushionless  ways,  and  they'd  take  the  land  for  nothing  and 
not  be  content.  It  would  be  far  less  bother  and  better  pay 
among  big  farms.  At  the  rent-time,  Laird,  I  could  wish  the 
wind  would  rise  and  blaw  the  Fauld  to  the  bottom  o'  Loch 
Fraochie.  It's  all  toil  and  little  thanks  for  them.  Findowie's 
not  half  the  trouble.' 

'  Well,  well,  you're  among  the  grumblers,  too,  Angus,'  said 
the  Laird.  'But  your  job  pays  you  very  well.  Any  back 
rents  to-morrow  ? ' 

'Ay,  that's  another  thing.  What  am  I  to  say  to  James 
Stewart  at  Turrich?  He's  nine  pounds  back,  and  three  for 
this  tack  makes  twelve.  I  don't  expect  he'll  pay  the  half  of  it.' 

*  Turrich !  Oh,  that's  the  man  with  the  sickly  wife  and  ten 
bairns.  Well,  money  can't  be  very  plentiful  with  him,  Angus.' 

'  Far  too  many  of  them,  sir.  If  he'd  set  them  off  to  service, 
there  would  be  fewer  mouths  to  feed.  And  he's  wanting  more 
land,  too.  He  says  if  he  had  Little  Turrich  croft  and  another 
horse,  he  could  make  it  pay.  But  it's  all  nonsense.  He  wants 
Little  Turrich  for  Rob,  the  ne'er-do-weel  son  of  his  that  wants 
to  marry  Mrs.  M'Bean's  bit  servant  lass.  A  bonnie  pair  they'd 
make,  an'  a  bonnie  bungle  o'  Little  Turrich,  as  I  told  them. 
But  we'll  see  what  old  Jamie  brings  the  morn.  I  think  that's 
a',  Laird.' 

'  An'  plenty ;  too  much,  Angus.  How's  the  lad  getting  on 
at  the  school  ? ' 

'Very  well,  but  he  can't  keep  up  with  Mr.  Fergus,  as  is 
hardly  to  be  expected,'  said  the  factor  smoothly. 

'  Then  he  can't  be  doing  much,  for  my  nephew  is  no  scholar 
But  do  they  'gree  ? '  asked  the  Laird  dryly. 

'I  never  hear  anything  about  it  if  they  don't,'  said  the 
factor,  with  a  laugh.  '  Laddies  are  aye  bickering.  Is  little 
Miss  Murray  very  well  ? ' 


n6  SHEILA. 

'Miss  Macdonald  is,'  returned  the  Laird,  with  emphasis. 
'  She  is  Miss  Macdonald  now,  M'Bean,  you  can  tell  the  folk.' 

Angus  M'Bean  could  only  nod  his  head  in  silent  acknow- 
ledgment of  the  Laird's  speech.  But  he  made  a  note  of  it  for 
future  consideration,  and  for  communication  to  Ellen  Macleod. 
It  would  be  a  fine  tit-bit  for  her.  Angus  M'Bean  began  to 
wonder  if  he  had  done  wisely  in  paying  so  much  attention  at 
Shonnen.  If  necessary,  he  could  easily  shy  off;  in  the  mean- 
time, he  would  wait  and  see. 

'I  hope  the  lady  who  has  come  to  look  after  Miss  Mac- 
donald's  education  is  giving  satisfaction?'  he  said  inquiringly. 

'Oh  yes;  the  child  is  fond  of  her,  and  it  keeps  her  from 
wearying.' 

'  Mrs.  M'Bean  would  be  pleased  to  see  Miss  Macdonald  and 
her  governess  at  Auchloy.  It  would  be  a  nice  walk  on  a  fine 
day,'  said  the  factor,  as  he  rose  to  go. 

'They  confine  themselves  to  Dalmore  and  to  the  post  road, 
I  think;  but  I'll  tell  them.  There  are  refreshments  on  the 
table,  Angus;  help  yourself.' 

'Thank  you,  sir;  your  very  good  health,  and  Miss  Mac- 
donald's,  and  prosperity  to  Dalmore,'  said  the  factor  as  he 
took  a  drink. 

'Thank  you.  Good-night  Look  up  after  the  business  is 
done,'  said  the  Laird. 

1  I'll  be  sure  to  do  that.  I  wish  it  was  over,'  said  the  factor, 
and  he  was  perfectly  sincere  in  what  he  said.  Rent-day  was 
never  a  very  pleasant  one  for  Angus  M'Bean,  for  he  was 
generally  obliged  to  listen  to  some  very  plain  statements  of 
fact  concerning  himself.  Left  alone,  Macdonald  returned  to 
his  solitary  musing,  and  sat  long  by  the  fire,  indeed  until  it 
became  smouldering  ashes  in  the  grate,  brooding  over  his  lost 
happiness,  and  making  the  weight  of  his  sorrow  a  thousand 
times  heavier.  He  had  no  one  to  rouse  him  out  of  himself. 
Sheila  was  but  a  child,  and  did  not  fully  understand  why  the 
shadow  should  dwell  so  continuously  on  her  father's  brow. 
Her  bounding  step,  sweet  smile,  and  bright,  bairnly  ways  never 
failed  to  rouse  him  at  times ;  but  now  that  the  governess  had 
come  to  Dalmore,  the  two  were  a  little  separated.  Lady  Ailsa 


FACTOR  AND  LAIRD.  117 

had  suggested,  and  indeed  insisted  that  if  Sheila  were  to  remain 
at  Dalmore,  a  young  lady  who  could  be  governess  and  com- 
panion to  the  solitary  ehild  must  be  engaged.  Macdonald  did 
not  demur,  and  the  minister's  daughter  from  Logie  Murray 
came  to  Dalmore.  She  was  a  bright,  happy  creature,  to  whom 
Sheila  took  kindly  at  once.  So  the  winter  promised  well  for 
the  bairn  ;  but  with  the  short  dreary  days  and  long  solitary 
evenings,  when  the  wintry  winds  howled  fiercely  round  on  the 
exposed  headland  on  which  Dalmore  stood,  the  shadows  seemed 
to  fall  yet  more  darkly  down  upon  Macdonald's  heart. 

Angus  M'Bean,  the  factor,  had  an  office  in  his  house  at 
Auchloy,  where  the  estate  business  was  transacted  and  the 
rents  received.  Hitherto  the  rents  had  been  punctually  paid, 
and  that  without  much  grumbling,  though  bit  by  bit  the 
privileges  were  being  wrested  from  the  cottars  in  Achnafauld. 
It  was  done  very  gradually,  little  by  little,  but  it  was  the  thin 
edge  of  the  wedge  which  Angus  M'Bean  meant  to  drive  home. 
First,  the  fishing  on  the  loch  had  been  preserved ;  a  small  thing 
in  itself,  and  not  of  much  importance,  seeing  the  cottars  did  not 
greatly  patronize  the  sport,  but  it  served  as  a  straw  to  show 
how  the  wind  blew.  Then  a  fence  would  be  removed  which 
would  take  off  a  bit  of  the  common  pasture  and  enclose  it  with 
the  factor's  land;  and  then  it  became  an  impossibility  to  get 
any  repairs  at  the  hands  of  the  Laird.  They  paid  well  for  their 
crofts, — about  double  in  proportion  per  acre  to  what  Angus 
M'Bean  paid  for  Auchloy, — and  it  might  have  been  thought  it 
was  only  a  fair  thing  for  the  Laird  to  uphold  the  buildings  in 
the  clachan.  Certainly  it  had  been  the  custom  for  years  for  the 
cottars  to  keep  up  their  meagre  steadings,  for  which  purpose 
they  were  welcome  to  obtain  wood  free  of  charge  from  the 
Laird's  saw-mill  on  the  Quaich.  But  the  mill  was  at  the  very 
head  of  the  glen,  a  very  sore  road,  and  the  few  horses  in  the 
Fauld  had  enough  to  do  on  the  land  without  carting  wood. 

So  the  steadings,  in  spite  of  thatching  and  patching,  were 
falling  into  disreputable  disrepair. 

Angus  M'Bean,  as  we  have  seen,  went  through  the  form  of 
consulting  the  Laird,  whose  remarks  he  twisted  and  turned  into 
meanings  to  suit  his  own  ends. 


n8  SHEILA. 

About  twelve  o'clock  next  day  there  was  a  gathering  in  the 
smiddy  to  discuss  matters  before  the  men  should  proceed  to  the 
factor's  office.  There  would  be  about  a  dozen  men,  conspicuous 
among  them  Ewan  the  precentor,  dressed  in  a  rusty  black 
coat,  and  big  Sandy  Maclean,  in  close  conference  with  Donald 
Macalpine  the  smith,  who  was  holding  forth  at  a  great  rate 
about  the  condition  of  the  smiddy. 

The  dipper  was  passing  freely,  and  already  Ewan  M'Fadyen 
was  getting  conspicuously  talkative  and  cheery. 

'  God  bless  my  soul,  lads ! '  he  said ;  '  wha's  Angus  M'Bean 
that  we  should  feel  our  equilibrium  vibrate  in  his  presence? 
If  he  doesn't  think  fit  to  accept  the  honorarium  we  offer,  let 
him  go  anfl  hide  his  diminished  head  in  the  loch.' 

'That  wad  suit  you,  Ewan:  ye're  unco  drouthy  this 
mornin',1  said  Rob  Macnaughton  the  stocking-weaver,  dryly. 
He  was  a  long,  gaunt,  strange-looking  man,  with  a  shaggy 
black  beard,  and  a  gleaming,  restless  black  eye.  He  did  not 
often  appear  in  any  of  the  smiddy  conclaves ;  but.  as  he  had 
a  grievance  and  a  request  also  to  lay  before  the  factor  when 
he  paid  his  rent,  he  had  stepped  over  to  see  what  was 
going  on. 

'  Listen  to  the  immortal  breathings  of  the  Bard  of  Achnafauld,' 
said  Ewan,  in  his  most  grandiloquent  style. 

When  Ewan  had  become  excited,  even  moderately,  his 
eloquence  and  verbosity  became  even  yet  more  remarkable  than 
usual. 

'Haud  yer  blethers,  Ewan,  an*  hear  what's  gaun  on,*  said 
Donald  Macalpine  hastily.  '  We're  discussin'  what's  to  be  done 
if  none  of  us  gets  any  satisfaction  from  the  Laird.  Look  at  the 
smiddy,  lads,  and  say  what  ye  think  of  its  condition.  There's 
that  muckle  draught  in't  that  it  wad  take  a'  the  peat  mosses  in 
the  Glen  to  keep  the  furnace  gaun.  I'm  sure  it's  but  reasonable 
to  ask  something  done.' 

'  The  powers  that  be  will  doubtless  have  another  version  of 
the  story,'  said  Ewan  M'Fadyen.  'If  they  won't  repair  the 
east  end  of  my  byre,  we'll  need  to  gie  Meg  quarters  in  the 
kitchen.  Well,  Janet  Menzies,  my  woman,  what  for  should  ye 
enter  into  the  solemn  assemblage  of  the  elders  ? '  he  added,  as 


FACTOR  AND  LAIRD.  119 

the  doorway  was  darkened  by  a  little  wizened  woman  in  a 
shortgown  and  '  soo-backit '  mutch. 

'  It's  after  twel' ;  are  ye  no'  gaun  west  the  glen  ? '  she  asked, 
in  a  shrill  voice.  'Angus  M'Bean  '11  be  gaspin' for  his  siller. 
His  haund's  like  a  muckle  wame,  aye  gantin'.' 

'Hae  ye  gotten  your  pickle  to  help  the  hole,  Jenny?'  asked 
Sandy  Maclean  slyly.  For  answer  Jenny  turned  out  the  old 
stocking-foot  she  held  in  her  hand,  and  showed  three  very  dirty 
pound  notes. 

'  That's  every  penny  he  gets  frae  me,'  she  said  shrilly.  '  It 
was  Laird  Macdonald's  wyte  that  Jock  Menzies  had  to  leave 
the  Fauld,  and  me  wi'  the  land  to  manage.' 

'But  it  wasna  the  Laird's  wyte  that  Jock  married  a  wife, 
Janet,'  said  Sandy,  who,  in  his  big,  slow,  lumbering  fashion, 
enjoyed  a  joke. 

1  No ;  but  if  Jock  had  bidden  in  the  Fauld  there  wad  hae 
neither  been  wife  nor  weans,  an'  I'd  tell  Laird  Macdonald  that 
gin  I  saw  him.' 

There  was  something  almost  uncanny  in  the  old  creature's 
gesture  and  look  as  she  sharply  replied  to  Sandy's  mild  chaffing. 
She  was  supposed  not  to  be  quite  right,  and  most  folk  pitied 
the  poor  bairns  who  had  been  sent  to  her  care.  Jock,  her 
brother,  had  been  a  queer  callant  also,  and  such  an  inveterate 
poacher,  that  the  glen  had  got  too  hot  for  him.  Some  of  the 
gentlemen  at  the  lodge  in  the  shooting  season  had  got  him  a 
place  in  Glasgow,  in  which  city  he  took  to  himself  a  wife.  But 
he  had  never  done  much  good  there,  and  his  drinking  habits 
shortened  his  days.  His  wife  died  before  him,  and  the  orphans 
were  left  in  Jenny's  care.  This  woman  was  a  thorn  in  the 
flesh  of  Angus  M'Bean.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  a 
mortal  enmity  existed  between  them.  The  factor  feared  her  wild 
temper  and  her  unbridled  tongue.  When  she  was  in  a  passion 
she  had  a  knack  of  recalling  certain  unpleasant  incidents 
connected  with  his  youth,  which  he  preferred  to  forget.  He 
was  just  watching,  eager  for  a  chance  to  get  her  evicted  from 
the  Fauld,  but  as  yet  had  been  unable  to  find  any  excuse. 

That  was  a  busy  morning  at  Auchloy.  Peter  Crerar  had 
lately  been  employed  occasionally  to  help  the  factor  with  his 


iao  SHEILA. 

books,  and  of  course  was  in  attendance  on  the  rent-day.  Very 
early  poor  Jamie  Stewart  came  over  from  Turrich,  anxious  to 
hear  the  Laird's  decision  about  Little  Turrich.  It  was  a  matter 
of  moment  to  him  to  keep  his  eldest  son  at  home,  but  the  lad 
was  anxious  to  marry,  and  it  was  impossible  to  divide  the 
croft.  He  had  seven  pounds  in  his  pocket,  which  he  presented 
to  Angus  M'Bean  with  a  trembling  hand. 

'  Five  pounds  short,  Jamie,  that  means  a  stirk  or  two  ewes 
for  the  Laird,'  said  Angus  pleasantly.  'Ye  might  just  have 
had  the  beastie  sold ;  it  would  have  saved  trouble.' 

'I  canna  sell  a  beastie  the  noo,  Mr.  M'Bean;  the  Laird  maun 
just  wait,'  said  Jamie  quietly.  'What  said  he  about  Little 
Turrich?' 

4  Do  ye  think  the  Laird's  a  fool,  Jamie  Stewart  ?     If  ye  cunna 
pay  for  five  acres,  how  could  ye  pay  for  seven?     Give  him 
his  receipt  for  seven  pounds,  Peter  Crerar.     There's  somebody 
else  waiting  at  the  door.' 

5  But  did  ye  explain  aboot  the  horse  and  what  Bob  wantit  ? ' 
asked  Jamie  Stewart. 

'The  Laird  has  mair  to  think  of  than  your  affairs,  Jamie 
Stewart.  They  would  gie  him  but  little  satisfaction.  Awa' 
back  to  Turrich,  and  I'll  be  owre  some  day  to  wale  a  beastie 
for  the  rent.' 

A  shadow  came  upon  the  old  man's  face,  but  he  w*s  of  a 
meek  disposition,  and  retired  without  a  word.  As  he  went 
out,  Janet  Menzies  pushed  herself  into  the  room,  and,  with  a 
curious  leer  at  Angus  M'Bean,  drew  out  her  three  pound- 
notes. 

'  There  ye  are,  my  man ;  there's  yer  siller,  an'  xmickle  guid 
may  it  dae  ye,'  she  said,  in  her  shrill  voice,  which  was  hateful 
to  Angus  M'Bean. 

'Three  pounds,  Janet?  where's  the  other  one?  The  Laird 
has  not  let  down  your  rent,  that  I'm  aware  of.' 

'  Ye'll  get  nae  mair  frae  me.  Did  ye  tell  him  that  I  had 
gotten  Jock's  bairus  to  keep  ? ' 

'  I  did  ;  but  we  can't  keep  them  for  you,  so  out  wi1  your 
other  pound,  my  woman,  without  more  ado.' 

'  No'  anither  penny,  an'  its  no'  wi'  my  will  ye  got  that. 


FACTOR  AND  LAIRD.  121 

I  want  to  ken  is,  what  you  pay  for  Auchloy,  Angus  M'Bean, 
and  hoo  many  bittocks  ye  are  thievin*  frae  the  Fauld  ?  ' 

Angus  M'Bean  swore  at  the  woman,  and  she  smiled  a  quiet 
smile  to  herself;  nothing  pleased  her  better  than  to  see  the 
factor  angered. 

*  My  woman,  ye'll  pay  for  yer  impertinence.  D'ye  ken  wha 
ye're  speakin'  to  ?  The  Laird  shall  ken  o'd,  an*  if  ye  bide  anither 
year  in  the  Fauld,  I'm  mistaken.  Gie  the  auld  crone  her  receipt, 
Peter,  an'  let  her  take  her  ill  tongue  outside.  Come  in,  Ewan 
M'Fadyen.  I  see  ye  keekin'  through  the  keyhole  wi'  yer  skelly 
e'e.  Come  in  an*  pit  doon  yer  bawbees.  No,  if  ye  want  yer 
byre  to  keep  out  the  snaw  ye  maun  divot  it,  the  Laird  says. 
Ye  needna  preach ;  I  haena  time  to  listen  to  yer  maunderin's. 
Ye're  owre  weel  aff,  an'  dinna  ken  o'  it.' 

With  such  grim  pleasantries  the  factor  received  and  dismissed 
the  tenants.  Every  request  was  refused,  every  grievance 
scouted  and  laughed  at. 

And  he  laid  it  all  at  the  Laird's  door,  putting  words  in  his 
mouth  he  had  never  uttered. 

So  the  seeds  of  disunion  were  sown,  and  Achnafauld  was 
set  against  Dalmore. 

11 


CHAPTER  XIIL 


FORESHADOWINGS. 


Man's  inhumanity  to  man 
Makes  countless  thousands  mount. 


BURNS. 


[0  you  know  where  Malcolm  is,  Katie  ? ' 

*  Malcolm  I  Oh,  Mr,  Fergus,  is  it  you  ?  He  is 
at  the  potatoes.  Shall  I  run  and  tell  him  you 
want  him  ? '  asked  Elate  Menzies,  blushing  all  over 
at  the  unexpected  sight  of  Fergus  Macleod  in  the  doorway, 
when  her  plump  round  arms  were  bare  to  the  elbow,  preparatory 
to  beginning  the  weekly  baking. 

'  That's  the  Shonnen  lad's  voice.  What  for  should  he  no' 
cross  my  door-stane.  Has  his  hire  made  him  ower  prood  to 
sit  doon  by  a  Fauld  ingle  ? '  cried  a  shrill,  uncanny  voice  from 
the  depths  of  a  big  chair  by  the  hearthside. 

Jenny  Menzies  had  lost  the  power  of  arm  and  limb  through 
rheumatics,  but  her  tongue  was  just  as  ready,  and  her  temper 
as  fiery  as  ever.  Although  she  was  so  helpless,  and  so  utterly 
dependent  on  her  niece,  she  was  not  in  the  least  grateful  for 
any  service  rendered  by  the  girl's  willing  hands.  When  too 
angry  to  speak,  she  would  throw  whatever  came  handiest  at 
her — peats  oftener  than  anything,  for  her  chair  stood  close  by 
the  peat  bin. 

;Eh,  is  that  you,  Jenny?'  cried  Fergus,  with  a  laugh.     'I 


FORESHADO  WINGS.  1 23 

thought  you  might  be  sleeping.  How  is  the  world  using  you, 
eh?' 

As  he  spoke,  the  big  handsome  lad  stalked  into  the  little  kitchen 
and  took  the  old  woman's  hand  in  a  kindly  grip,  which  pleased 
her  well,  though  it  hurt  her  poor  swollen  joints  not  a  little. 

'  Eh,  callant,  ye  hae  grown  in  spite  o'  yer  lare  an'  yer  toon's 
meat.  Ech,  what  a  year  or  twa  can  dae  for  brats  o'  bairns.' 

It  was  true,  a  few  years  had  indeed  wrought  wondrous 
changes  in  the  young  folk  who  make  the  chief  interest  of  this 
history.  We  left  Katie  Menzies  a  bairn,  and  we  find  her,  when 
we  cross  the  bridge  of  these  few  years,  a  comely,  womanly  girl 
of  fifteen.  She  had  a  woman's  work  to  do,  and  a  woman's  care 
and  forethought  to  exercise,  which  had  doubtless  given  her  a 
maturity  of  appearance  and  manner  she  might  not  otherwise 
have  attained  so  early.  She  was  a  sweet-looking  young  maiden, 
with  a  clear,  healthy-hued  face,  a  bright,  speaking  blue  eye,  and 
a  happy  smile.  Her  dress,  a  striped  skirt  and  a  light  calico 
shortgown,  with  a  white  handkerchief  folded  round  her  sweet 
throat  and  crossed  on  her  bosom,  was  peculiarly  and  modestly 
becoming.  It  was  no  wonder  they  called  Katie  Menzies  the 
bonniest  lass  in  Achnafauld.  As  for  Fergus  Macleod,  at  sixteen 
he  had  almost  attained  a  man's  height,  though  his  loose  figure 
had  yet  to  fill  up  and  make  breadth  proportionate  to  the  length. 
His  face  was  not  so  ruddy  as  it  had  been  when  he  lived 
constantly  in  the  open  air,  but  its  hue  was  perfectly  healthy, 
and  his  clear  grey  eyes  bright  and  undimmed  as  of  yore. 

'Sit  down  upon  a  seat,  Fergus  Macleod,  if  ye  be  the  same 
laddie  ye  aye  were,'  said  Jenny  Menzies  brusquely.  '  Sit  down, 
I  say,  and  gie's  the  news.  I  ken  naething.  My  limmers  o' 
bairns  never  tell  a  thing,  and  now  that  I'm  laid  aside  the 
neebor  folk  think  I'm  deid.' 

Katie  turned  to  her  baking  with  a  twinkle  in  her  happy  eye, 
which  Fergus  caught  and  smiled  too.  He  looked  at  Katie  with 
great  interest.  How  bonnie  and  sweet  she  was  !  He  wondered 
he  had  not  thought  of  it  before. 

'  So  ye  are  gaun  awa'  to  the  college,  I  hear,'  pursued  Jenny. 
'  "What  are  they  to  mak'  o'  ye  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know.     I  am  going  to  the  college  just  now  to  please 


124  SHEILA. 

my  mother.  And  I'll  have  to  do  something  for  my  living,' 
said  Fergus,  with  a  slight  cloud  on  his  brow,  for  the  sore 
subject  was  a  sore  subject  still. 

'  An'  what's  to  come  o'  Dalmore,  eh  ?  The  auld  Laird's  sail 
failed,  they  say ;  never  oot  the  hoose.' 

*  So  I  hear.     I  have  not  seen  my  uncle  for  a  long  time,'  said 
Fergus  hastily.     '  I  can't  sit  a  long  time,  Jenny,  for  I've  to  go 
round  the  Fauld,  and  I  want  a  talk  with  Malcolm.* 

1  An'  when  are  ye  gaun  away  ? ' 
'On  Monday.' 

*  An'  when  did  ye  come  ?  * 
'  Yesterday.' 

'  They  dinna  gie  ye  muckle  rest  for  the  soles  o'  yer  feet.  Is 
the  factor's  son  gaun  wi'  ye  ? ' 

'He  is  going  to  college,  but  his  classes  will  be  different. 
We'll  not  see  much  of  each  other.' 

'  He's  idled  aboot  a'  the  simmer,  an'  played  a  heap  o'  mischief 
in  the  Fauld.  Malcolm  fair  hates  him.  Oor  Malky's  maybe 
no'  a'  there,  but  he  has  ta'en  the  size  o'  Puddin'  M'Bean,'  said 
the  old  woman,  with  a  kind  of  grim  delight.  '  D'ye  ken  wha's 
Laird  o'  Dalmore  now,  Master  Fergus  ? ' 

'No/  said  Fergus,  looking  slightly  surprised. 

'  Him  up  at  Auchloy.  Eh,  lad,  it's  time  ye  were  at  hame 
to  look  efter  what  should  be  yer  ain.  If  ye  are  ower  lang, 
there'll  no'  be  muckle  to  divide.  An'  there's  a  young  ane 
comin*  up  that'll  be  waur  nor  the  auld  ane.  If  ye  are  a  true 
Macdonald,  lad,  ye'll  see  to  it  that  the  factorship  disna  pass 
frae  father  to  son.  We  ken  a'  aboot  it  here.  Gang  to  Donald 
M'Glashan,  or  Rob  Macnaughton,  or  Dugald  M'Tavish.  They'll 
a'  gie  ye  the  same  story.' 

'  It  is  surely  not  so  bad  as  that,  Jenny,'  said  Fergus,  trying 
to  speak  cheerfully,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet.  '  I  can't  believe  that 
my  uncle  is  not  able  to  manage  his  own  affairs.  Good-day  to 
you.  Good-day.  Katie,  come  out,  will  yon,  and  let  me  see 
where  Malcolm  is  ? ' 

Katie  wiped  her  hands  and  followed .  him  out  to  the 
door. 

'  Katie/  said  Fergus   soberly,  '  I've  heard  a  great  deal  about 


FORESHADO  WINGS.  1 25 

Angus  M'Bean's  way  of  going  on.  Is  it  really  true  that  he 
oppresses  the  folk  in  the  Fauld  ? ' 

Tears  started  in  Katie's  eyes.  'Ay,  it's  quite  true,  Master 
Fergus.  I  wondered,  indeed,  that  auntie  didna  say  more. 
He's  been  very  hard  on  us.  He  seems  to  hate  us,  and  wants 
us  out  of  the  place.  Mr.  Fergus,  I'm  perfectly  feared  whiles 
at  Malcolm.  Oh,  try  and  speak  to  him.  You  know  he  is  a 
queer  laddie,  and  when  he  gets  into  his  awfu'  passions,  if  he 
were  to  see  the  factor  or  Angus,  he  micht  kill  them.  I  whiles 
wish  we  had  bidden  in  Glasca,  though  I  like  the  Fauld.  It's 
grand  to  live  in  sic  a  bonnie  place,  among  sic  kind  neebors.' 

Til  try  what  I  can  do,  Katie,'  said  Fergus,  with  deeply 
clouding  brow,  for  he  felt  himself  very  helpless.  He  was 
growing  up,  and  understood  many  things  which  had  puzzled 
him  in  boyhood.  He  loved  the  old  folk  in  the  Fauld,  for  they 
had  known  him  since  he  was  a  bairn. 

'Have  ye  seen  Miss  Sheila  this  time,  Mr.  Fergus?'  asked 
Katie.  'She  is  to  go  away  to  the  boarding-school  soon,  she 
says.' 

'No,  I  have  not  seen  her.  Does  she  come  often  to  the 
Fauld?' 

'  Oh  yes ;  twice  or  thrice  a  week.  She  is  so  kind  to  auntie. 
If  it  werena  for  what  she  brings,  Mr.  Fergus,  we  couldna  live. 
We  had  to  put  away  the  sheep  and  the  cow  too,  for  we  had 
no  grass.' 

'  What's  become  of  the  hill.  Is  the  pasture  not  as  good  as 
it  once  was  ? ' 

'  Ay,  but  we  daurna  put  a  beast  on  it.  Oh,  it's  hard  times, 
Mr.  Fergus.  But  there's  auntie  cryin*.  Speak  to  Malky,  will 
ye,  an'  bid  him  be  more  patient.  I  whiles  think  that  he 
angers  Mr.  M'Bean  more  than  he  need.' 

'  I'll  try,  Katie ;  don't  be  vexed,'  said  Fergus,  and  shook  her 
by  the  hand,  for  they  had  been  bairns  together  at  the  Fauld 
School,  and  nobody  could  help  liking  Katie. 

He  hesitated  just  a  moment ;  desire  drew  him  to  the 
smith's  shop,  but  he  knew  he  would  get  the  information  he 
wanted  without  ado  from  Rob  Macnaughton,  the  stocking- 
weaver.  So  he  ran  across  the  road  and  lifted  the  sneck  of 


i26  SHEILA. 

Bob's  door.  All  the  other  doors  in  the  Fauld  stood  open 
summer  and  winter  in  the  daytime,  but  Rob's  was  aye  shut. 
The  loom  seemed  to  be  silent,  and  when  he  pushed  open  the 
kitchen  door,  there  was  Rob,  with  his  little  table  before  the 
fire,  taking  his  solitary  tea.  He  was  not  in  any  way  changed, 
unless  the  big,  gaunt,  shuffling  figure  seemed  to  have  grown 
more  loose  and  thin-looking ;  but  there  was  not  a  grey  hair  in 
his  head,  nor  any  sign  of  approaching  age  on  his  grim,  stern 
face. 

'It's  you,'  he  said,  fixing  his  keen  eye  on  Fergus,  but 
without  any  sign  of  recognition.  'If  ye  be  comin'  in,  shut 
the  door.' 

'Well,  Rob,  how  are  you?  Well  enough,  I  see.  I'm  not 
forgetting  my  old  friends.  I  have  only  been  at  Shonnen  for 
two  days,  and  here  I  am/ 

'  So  I  see ;  ye've  grown.  Ye  are  a  man  now,  Fergm 
Macleod.  Sit  down  if  ye  are  to  bide  a  bit.' 

'  Yes.  I'm  going  to  bide  a  bit.  I've  come  to  you  seeking 
authentic  information,'  he  said,  in  his  quick,  impetuous  fashion. 
'  Rob,  is  it  true  that  times  are  getting  hard  for  the  Fauld  folk? 
Tell  me  all  about  it.' 

A  slow,  bitter  smile  came  upon  Rob  Macnaughton's  grim 
face.  He  took  up  his  saucer  and  drank  all  his  tea,  and  then 
lifted  the  table  back  to  the  wall. 

'  I've  gi'en  up  parritch,'  he  said  laconically ;  *  when  ye've  to 
buy  milk,  tea's  cheaper,  and  it  takes  less  time  to  make.  So 
ye've  been  hearing  some  rumblings  o'  the  thunder  that  some- 
times shakes  the  clachan  ? ' 

'  I've  been  at  Jenny  Menzies's.  Katie  says  they're  positively 
ill  off.  Rob,  did  my  uncle  give  orders  that  their  beasts  were 
not  to  go  on  the  hill  ? ' 

'There's  no  hill  now,  lad.  It's  fenced  in  as  the  lands  of 
Auchloy.  There's  a  new  laird.  But,  as  ye've  been  away, 
ye've  maybe  not  heard  of  the  change.' 

'  It's  abominable,  perfectly  abominable  I '  cried  the  lad  hotly. 
'If  you  knew  my  uncle  as  I  know  him,  Rob,  you  would  be 
perfectly  mad  at  Angus  M'Bean.  My  uncle  is  so  kind,  a 
kinder  man  never  breathed,  only,  of  course,  he  is  just.  If  h« 


FORESHADO  WINGS.  1 2  7 

knew  the  true  state  of  affairs,  he  would  set  them  right  instantly. 
I'll  go  to  him  myself  and  tell  him  how  you  are  oppressed.' 

'  I  misdoubt  not  your  word,  Fergus,  for  I  remember  Laird 
Macdonald  as  a  just  man,  though  not  generous.  It  is  only 
justice  we  want.  Justice  would  enable  us  to  live.  It  has 
come  to  this,  Fergus  Macleod,  that  the  spoiler  and  the 
oppressors  have  turned  the  hearts  of  the  people  to  gall  within 
them,  and  that  they  can  stand  it  no  more.  The  day  is  coming, 
nay,  it  is  drawing  very  near,  when  the  snell  winds  shall  whistle 
through  the  rent  roofs  of  Achnafauld,  and  where  there  has 
been  the  hum  of  peace  and  plenty,  with  the  music  of  bairns' 
voices,  there  shall  be  but  the  cryin*  o'  the  burn  an'  the  soughin' 
o'  the  birks,  and  the  homes  where  peace  and  neighbourly 
kindness  dwelt  shall  become  the  haunt  of  the  cattle  and  the 
deer. 

*  Some  day  this  house,  Fergus  Macleod,  where  my  forebears 
dwelt  long  before  there  was  a  Macdonald  set  foot  upon  the  soil, 
will  be  a  rent  ruin,  a  cattle-pen,  maybe,  for  the  stock  of  the 
Laird  of  Auchloy.  But  let  him  beware.  Let  him  not  think 
he  stands  firm.  For  the  tears  and  the  curses  of  the  people  he 
hath  so  grievously  oppressed  shall  ascend  to  heaven,  and  hath 
not  the  Lord,  whom  mayhap  we  have  forgotten  in  our 
prosperity,  said,  "Vengeance  is  mine,  I  will  repay"?' 

The  poet's  eye  shone  with  the  peculiar  fire  which  Fergus 
remembered  used  to  awe  him  in  boyhood,  when  Kob  would  forget 
his  presence,  and  half  chant,  half  recite  his  weird  Gaelic  ballads 
and  the  superstitious  legends  in  which  he  delighted. 

'You  are  poetical,  but  not  practical,  Kob,'  said  the  lad 
quietly.  '  Have  the  Fauld  folk  thought  of  anything  to  do  in 
self-defence  ?  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  everything.  I  may  be  able 
to  do  something  to  help  you.' 

Rob  laid  the  points  of  his  fingers  together  in  a  peculiar  way, 
and  looked  over  them  at  the  lad  with  a  touch  of  compassion. 

'You?  Lad,  ye  are  too  open  and  guileless  to  fight  the  devil 
My  advice  to  you  is,  steer  clear  of  Angus  M'Bean.  The  only 
thing  that  would  save  the  Fauld  would  be  if  the  Laird  were  to 
die  now,  and  leave  the  place  to  you.  It  is  yours  by  right. 
She  is  a  sweet  bairn,  they  say,  that  comes  down  from  Dalmore ; 


128  SHEILA, 

but  she  is  not  of  your  blood.  The  place  is  yours  by  right,  but 
it  never  will  be  yours,  Fergus  Macleod,  as  long  as  that  ill  man 
bides  in  the  glen.' 

'If  I  had  the  power  I'd  make  short  work  of  him,'  said 
Fergus,  and  he  clenched  his  hands ;  for  the  interests  of  his 
heart — nay,  of  his  life — were  bound  up  in  the  place  and  the 
people  among  whom  his  boyhood  had  been  spent.  No  mortal 
knew  what  it  had  been  for  the  lad  to  dwell  away  from  these 
hills  and  glens,  and  to  give  his  attention  to  books.  He  had 
gained  more  sense  now,  however ;  and,  knowing  that  education 
and  knowledge  are  powers  which  have  no  equal,  he  had  ceased 
to  kick  over  the  traces,  and  was  quiet  in  scholastic  harness 
But  meanwhile,  oh,  what  things  were  happening  in  the  glen  ! 

'  Do  you  mind  Jamie  Stewart,  that  was  in  Turrich,  Fergus  ? ' 

«Yes,  fine.' 

'Well,  in  the  spring-time  there — ye  ken  what  the  March 
blasts  are  up  Glenquaich — he  was  put  out  of  Turrich — 
evicted,  I  think,  is  the  new-fangled  word  they  used.  He  was 
back  in  his  rent  about  ten  pounds,  I  think ;  but  there  was  stuff 
and  beasts  to  pay  it  over  and  above.  And  the  wife  had  to  be 
carried  out,  bed  and  all,  and  laid  down  at  the  dyke-side  above 
the  drift.  What  think  ye  o'  that,  Fergus  Macleod  ? ' 

Tears — tears  of  anger  and  burning  indignation — stood  in  the 
boy's  honest  eyes. 

*  And  what  became  of  them,  Rob  ? ' 

*  The  Laird  of  Garrpws  gave  them  a  house  and  a  croft,  and 
there  they  are  biding  in  the  meantime  till  things  are  settled. 
But  I  would  lay  this  thing  before  you,  Fergus  Macleod,  for  ye 
are  a  just,  fair-minded  lad,  wi'  mair  nor  a  man's  sense.     Two 
hundred  years    ago — ay,   and   more — the    Stewarts    abode   in 
Turrich,  and  farmed  their  own  lands.     At  the  '45  Turrich  went 
out  to  fight  wi'  Charlie,  and  died  on  Culloden,  and  then  the 
place  was  confiscated,  they  called  it,  but  we  are  honest  folk, 
and  speak  in  an  honest  tongue.      So  Macdonald  that  was  in 
Dalmore,  a  Royalist,  though  he  bore  one  of  the  best  Highland 
names,  seized  upon  Turrich  an'  a'  the  lands  up  the  glen.     An' 
syne,  when  the  blast  blew  past,  and  Turrich's  wife  an'  bairns 
came  back  to  the  glen,  they  found  their  home  stolen  from  them, 


FORESHADO  WINGS.  \  29 

and  that  they  had  no  habitation  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  But 
for  the  love  they  bore  to  the  place  of  their  birth,  they  took  it 
upon  Macdonald's  terms,  and  became  tillers  of  their  own  soil 
once  more,  but  paying  tithes  in  money  and  kind  for  their 
lease.' 

« Is  all  that  true,  Rob  ? ' 

« True  ?  Ay,  and  that's  but  one  case.  Not  that  we're 
grumbling.  We  are  willing  to  pay  a  fair  rent  if  we  can  but 
make  a  living,'  said  Rob,  growing  more  practical.  'At  one 
time  that  was  easy,  for  the  Laird  meddled  not  with  us.  I 
know  not,  Fergus,  why  Angus  M'Bean  should  have  sic  an  ill- 
will  at  the  place  and  the  folk  among  whom  he  was  born.  His 
father  was  a  fine  man  ;  but  a  good  man  may  have  an  ill  son. 
There  are  folk,  Fergus,  who  make  good  servants,  but  canna 
rule.  It  sweeps  them  off  their  feet.  Auchloy  is  one.  But  he 
has  a  long  account  to  settle  wi'  the  Almighty  at  the  last  day. 
I'd  rather  be  Jamie  Stewart,  landless  and  friendless,  than 
Angus  M'Bean  of  Auchloy.' 

Fergus  Macleod  hid  his  face  in  his  hands.  These  things 
weighed  upon  his  heart.  Sometimes  he  was  tempted  to  doubt 
the  verv  existence  of  God  when  he  saw  such  gross  injustice  clone 
his  creatures.  But  better  thoughts  prevailed,  and  he  saw  that  it 
was  only  human  greed,  unsubdued  by  divine  love,  and  unre- 
strained by  divine  law,  that  wrought  the  mischief;  and  Fergus 
lifted  his  troubled  heart  in  silent  prayer,  and  still  bad  faith  that 
God  heard  him,  and  in  some  way  would  cause  the  right  to  pre- 
vail. Could  that  faith  have  always  anchored  his  soul  ?  But  we 
shall  see. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


MALCOLM. 

A  rude,  wild  soul, 
To  whom  the  whispering  breeze, 
The  silent  hills,  the  rushing  tide, 
Spoke  with  strange  voices. 

OES  my  uncle  never  come  to  the  Fauld  now,  Rob?' 
Fergus  asked  at  length. 

'No.     They  say  he's  sore  spent,  and  cannot  live 
long.     He  lost  his  spirit,  lad,  when  his  lady  died.' 
'And  what  do  you  think  will  be  the  end  of  it  all?'  said   the 
boy,    with   a  burst   of  wistful   earnestness   very  touching   to 
behold. 

'The  end  will  be  as  I  said.  The  four  winds  of  heaven  will 
sweep  through  the  Fauld,  and  will  not  be  heard  by  the  ears  of 
living  mortal  in  the  place,'  said  Rob.  '  Ye  mind  of  Peter 
Crerar,  the  schoolmaster,  that  was  clerk,  too,  to  the  factor?' 

'  How  could  I  have  forgotten  Peter,  Rob,  when  I  was  at  his 
school  for  six  months  ? ' 

'  Well,  he  and  his  brother  David  and  his  uncle,  lang  John 
M'Fadyen  that  was  in  Easter  Lynmore,  went  away  in  the 
spring  across  the  seas  to  Upper  Canada ;  and  what  think  ye  was 
their  errand,  lad  ? ' 

Fergus  shook  his  head,  his  eyes  fixed  on  Bob  with  the  most 
intense  interest. 

1M 


MALCOLM.  131 

'  It  was  to  see  what  manner  of  country  it  is :  to  view  the 
land,  as  the  Israelites  viewed  the  land  of  Canaan  ;  and  no  later 
gone  than  yesterday  letters  came  to  the  Fauld,  and  it's  a  grand 
report.  So  there'll  be  a  heap  of  spinning  and  weaving  in  the 
Fauld  this  winter,  Fergus  Macleod.' 

'What  for?' 

'  To  prepare  against  the  day  when  the  folk  shall  rise  in  a 
body  and  go  forth  from  their  own  land  to  a  land  they  know  not 
and  have  never  seen.  But  it  couldna  well  be  harder  till  them 
than  this  has  been.' 

1  You  don't  mean  to  say,  Rob  Macnaughton,  that  they're 
going  to  emigrate?' 

1  Yes ;  after  due  consideration,  that  is  what  decision  we  have 
arrived  at,  and  it  is  a  wise  one.  I  shall  not  myself  leave 
Achnafauld,  because  I  can  aye  get  bite  and  sup,  and  I  have 
some  siller  laid  by.  But  for  the  young  men  and  the  fathers  of 
families  it  is  a  wise  plan,  Fergus,  that  they  should  leave  before 
they  are  cleared  out,  as  they  certainly  will  be,  by  the  corbie  at 
Auchloy,  if  they  bide  muckle  langer  in  the  place.' 

'  Does  my  uncle  know  of  this  ? ' 

'  I  know  not,  Fergus.     Auchloy  himself  has  an  inkling  of  it.' 

'  And  who  are  going,  Rob  ?  Tell  me  quick.  Oh,  I  can 
hardly  believe  it ! ' 

'  There's  all  the  Stewarts,  and  the  Crerars,  and  Ewan 
M'Fadyen.  Of  Donald  Macalpine  I'm  not  sure,  for  his 
business  is  good,  and  cannot  be  meddled  with  by  Angus 
M'Bean.  And  there's  big  Sandy  Maclean  an'  a'  his  folks,  and 
wee  Sandy  Maclean  down  by  at  Wester  Coila,  an*  a  heap  more 
whose  names  I  canna  mind.' 

'  Are  they  all  from  Dalmore  folk,  Rob  ?  Are  there  no  dis- 
contents among  Shian  or  Garrows  cottars  ?' 

'  Not  that  I've  heard  of.  Cameron  of  Garrows  and  Campbell 
of  Shian  deal  straight  with  their  own  people,  and  there  is  not 
the  lying,  evil  tongue  of  Angus  M'Bean  to  come  between. 
Fergus  Macleod,  if  ever  you  come  to  your  own,  or  have  name 
and  lands  in  your  hand,  take  warning  by  what  has  happened 
here  among  the  folk  ye  have  kent  all  your  days.  Let  no  man 
come  between  yon  and  your  folk,  and  then  there  will  be 


13*  SHEILA. 

justice  done.  Are  ye  for  off?  I  misdoubt,  laddie,  I  have  laid 
a  heavy  sorrow  on  your  young  heart,  but  bear  it  lightly,  as  it  is 
not  of  your  own  doing.  If  ye  come  in  by  another  day,  I'll  let 
ye  hear  my  lilt  about  the  desolation  of  the  Fauld.  It  has  been 
wrung  from  me  by  the  vexations  of  the  folk.  They  think  me 
thrawn,  and  say  my  heart  is  like  the  nether  millstane,  but  they 
dinna  ken  that  the  strong  currents  rin  wi'  nae  muckle  din,  and 
that  I'm  wae,  wae  for  Achnafauld,  an*  the  leal  hearts  that  have 
kent  no  other  hame.' 

'  Rob,'  said  Fergus,  turning  back  at  the  door,  '  do  you  ever 
see  or  speak  with  Malcolm  Menzies  ?  Katie  says  she  is  anxious 
about  him.' 

'  She  may  be ;  the  lad  has  a  fine  spirit  that's  easy  fretted. 
I've  whiles  a  dwam  about  him  mysel'.  There's  a  mortal  hatred 
between  Angus  M'Bean  and  him.' 

*  Are  the  Menzies  not  among  the  intending  emigrants  ? ' 

Rob  shook  his  head. 

'Jenny  Menzies  couldna  sail  the  seas  with  her  stiff  joints  now, 
and  the  bairns  maun  bide  behind  wi'  her.  They  say  Malcolm 
Menzies  is  daft,  Fergus ;  but  dinna  you  believe  it.  He  has  the 
music  of  the  winds  an'  of  the  runnin'  waters  in  his  soul.  The 
puir  chield  is  a  poet,  an'  disna  ken  what  a'  the  clangour  an*  the 
jumble  means.  He'll  find  his  weird  yet,  Fergus,  an'  there  will 
be  peace  of  mind  when  the  music  that's  in  him  finds  its  voice, 
Fergus.  He'll  thraw  nae  mair  wi'  Angus  M'Bean,  and  vex  his 
sister's  soul,  for  he'll  hae  that  within  him  that'll  make  him  at 
peace  with  all  men.' 

'Does  he  come  in  by  to  you,  Rob?' 

'Whiles,  an'  sits  an'  greets  an'  greets  as  if  he  were  a  lass 
bairn  instead  of  a  muckle  haflin  wi'  the  strength  o'  twa  men. 
Then  I  pit  the  bolt  in  the  door,  an'  gie  him  my  rhymes  an' 
sangs  or  the  lad's  fair  beside  himsel'  wi'  delight.  Daft !  na, 
there's  no'  muckle  daftness  about  Malcolm  Menzies.  He'll 
maybe  surprise  us  a'  some  day.1 

'  Til  go,  then,  Rob,  and  look  out  for  Malcolm.  I'd  like  well 
to  see  him  before  I  go  to  the  college.' 

'  Does  the  thought  of  the  gown  an'  the  pulpit  no'  set  up  your 
birse  now  as  it  did,  Fergus  ?  ' 


MALCOLM.  133 

'Fll  never  be  a  minister,  Rob,  though  I  should  cast  peats  for 
my  living.  But  I  have  more  sense  than  that,  and  I  know  that 
without  learning  a  man  can  do  but  little  in  the  world.  My 
mother  knows  my  mind  is  made  up,  but  she  is  anxious  for  me 
to  take  my  degree  in  arts  at  Edinburgh.' 

'Ye  are  a  sensible  lad,  but  ye  promised  weel  as  a  bairn,'  said 
Rob,  looking  into  the  fine,  open,  honest  countenance  of  the  boy 
with  a  strange,  softened  glance.  '  Gin  ye  were  but  Laird  o' 
Findowie  an'  Dalmore,  there  would  be  less  talk  about  the  ferlies 
across  the  sea.  Guid  e'en,  Fergus,  an'  may  every  blessing 
guide  ye.' 

Fergus  nodded  and  strode  off,  while  Rob  put  his  bolt  in  the 
door  and  went  back  to  his  loom.  Fergus  Macleod  wondered 
when  he  heard  folk  speak  of  Rob  Macnaughton  as  a  dull,  sour, 
morose  being,  with  whom  it  was  impossible  to  converse. 
Children's  hands  could  open  the  locked  door  of  Rob's  heart,  and 
push  it  back  on  its  rusty  hinges,  and  he  whom  the  child  can 
love  is  never  bad. 

Fergus  ran  over  the  stepping-stones,  never  looking  back, 
though  he  heard  the  smith's  jolly  voice  calling  him.  He  knew 
that,  if  they  inveigled  him  in,  Donald  and  Mary  between  them 
would  keep  him  an  hour  at  the  fireside.  Behind  Janet  Menzies's 
cottage  he  saw  Malcolm  working  alone  in  the  potato  drills, 
though  it  was  so  dark  he  could  not  possibly  see  to  do  his  work 
well.  Fergus  gave  a  loud,  shrill  whistle,  and  stood  up  on  a 
little  hillock  at  the  burn-side,  so  that  Malcolm  might  see  him. 
The  tall,  loosely-hung  figure  gave  a  start  and  stood  up,  looking 
round  to  see  where  the  whistle  came  from.  Catching  sight  of 
Fergus,  Malcolm  put  down  his  graip  and  creel,  and  came  slowly 
up  the  drill.  He  was  an  odd  figure  in  his  rough  homespun, 
his  trouser  legs  warped  round  with  straw  ropes  to  keep  out  the 
mud,  and  his  big,  sprawling  feet  encased  in  heavy  clogs.  The 
remains  of  a  red  Tarn  o'  Shanter  hung  on  to  a  tuft  of  hair  on  his 
crown,  leaving  the  big  forehead  bare.  His  large  melancholy 
eyes  had  a  somewhat  wandering  look  in  them,  and  there  was  a 
weak  look  about  the  mouth.  He  was  not  a  robust  lad,  but 
when  it  pleased  him,  or  when  he  was  roused  into  a  passion,  he 
could  exhibit  a  terrible  strength.  His  appearance  was  singular 


134  SHEILA. 

in  the  extreme.  It  was,  indeed,  difficult  to  believe  that  he  was 
bonnie  Katie's  brother ;  but  he  was  very  dear  to  Katie,  and  she 
was  the  apple  of  Malcolm's  eye.  His  love  for  her  was  indeed 
more  like  the  worship  of  a  lover  than  the  sober  affection  of  a 
brother.  He  was  pitied  in  the  Fauld,  but  not  much  taken 
notice  of  except  by  Rob  Macnaughton,  who  had  found  the  key 
to  that  half-wild,  sensitive,  passionate  nature. 

A  gleam  of  pleased  recognition  came  in  his  face  when  he 
came  near  to  Fergus  Macleod,  for  whom  he  had  a  strong  regard. 
Fergus  had  never  laughed  at  or  teased  the  poor,  shy,  queer  lad, 
whom  everybody  else  treated  as  a  half-wit,  and  Malcolm  Menzies 
was  capable  of  intense  gratitude. 

'Halloa,  Malky,  what  a  man  you've  grown,'  cried  Fergus 
cheerily.  '  I'm  sure  you  can't  see  to  lift  potatoes  now.  Come 
on  up  the  road  a  bit  with  me ;  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  and  I 
haven't  time  to  wait.' 

'  When  did  ye  come  back  ? '  asked  Malcolm,  with  a  slow 
smile  of  pleasure  on  his  sunburned  face. 

'  Why,  yesterday,  and  I'm  going  away  on  Monday.  I've  been 
in  seeing  Aunt  Jenny  and  Katie.  How  are  you  getting  on, 
Malky  ? ' 

'  Oh,  fine,'  cried  Malcolm,  and  dropped  his  eyes  down  on  the 
ground.  He  walked  usually  thus,  in  a  kind  of  shuffling  gait, 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  Rob  Macnaughton  used  to  watch 
him  whiles,  and  think  what  a  revelation  these  brooding  thoughts 
would  be  could  they  be  laid  bare. 

'  You  are  getting  to  be  a  grand  farmer,  they  say,  Malcolm. 
You  work  all  your  aunt's  croft  yourself,  don't  you  ? ' 

'  Ay ;  I  could  dae't  twice  ower  noo,'  said  the  lad,  with 
emphasis ;  '  we've  nae  beasts  noo.  It's  dreich  work  without  a 
beast  aboot  the  place.' 

'  Oh,  but  you'll  get  beasts  again,  Malky,'  said  Fergus  cheerily, 
for  he  did  not  wish  to  get  him  on  to  the  vexed  question  of  the 
crofts.  '  I  want  to  hear  about  how  you're  getting  on  with  your 
lessons.  Can  you  write  yet?' 

'Yes,  an'  read  an'  a';  Katie  learned  me.  She  writes  a 
graund  haund,'  said  Malcolm  proudly. 

'Ay,  Katie's  as  clever  as  she's  bonnie;  we  are  all  prcud  of 


MALCOLM.  135 

Katie,'  said  Fergus  cheerily.  *  And  has  Rob  succeeded  in  teach- 
ing you  Gaelic  yet  ? ' 

'  Some  o'd,'  said  Malcolm,  with  a  grin  of  delight ;  '  but  it's 
awfu'  ill.  Eob's  a  graund  man.' 

'  Yes,  he  is.  And  when  are  we  to  see  your  poetry,  Malky  ? 
I  know  it  is  in  you.' 

A  dark  red  flush  rose  slowly  over  the  lad's  face,  and  Fergus 
wondered  to  see  his  mouth  tremble. 

'  My  poetry !  hoots,  Rob  jist  havers.' 

'Never  a  bit  of  him,  Malky  ;  Rob  knows  what's  what.  Make 
up  a  song  about  Katie.  I'm  sure  you  could  never  get  a  finer 
subject.' 

'  Katie  thinks  my  sangs  graunder  than  Rob's,'  said  Mal- 
colm, betrayed  into  confidence  by  Fergus  Macleod's  cheery 
sympathy. 

'  Of  course ;  an'  so  maybe  will  I,  though  the  Gaelic  is  a  want. 
It's  a  splendid  language,  Malcolm ;  I'm  learning  it  myself,  but 
it's  worse  than  Greek  or  Latin.  Well,  are  you  going  to  let  me 
have  one  of  your  songs,  eh  ? ' 

*  No'  the  nicht,'  said  Malcolm,  actually  trembling.  Poor 
laddie !  nobody  knew  what  his  '  sangs '  were  to  him.  Even 
Rob  Macnaughton,  a  poet  himself,  only  partially  understood. 

'  Have  you  any  books  of  poetry  in  the  house,  Malcolm  ?  I 
could  get  some  for  you  in  Edinburgh,'  said  Fergus  kindly. 

'  I  have  Ossian,'  said  Malcolm  proudly.  '  Rob  said  he  wad 
gie  me  it  when  I  could  read  it,  and  I  can  read  it  now.' 

'  Can  you  really  ?  and  do  you  like  Ossian,  Malcolm  ? '  asked 
Fergus  curiously,  for  it  always  seemed  a  lot  of  nonsense  to  him 
— a  repeating  of  long  fine-sounding  sentences  without  meaning. 
Our  Fergus  was  a  very  commonplace  young  man,  only  very 
honest  and  kind  and  true,  which  all  poets  are  not. 

'  Like  Ossian  ?  I  should  just  think  it.  He's  graund,'  said 
Malcolm,  stretching  himself  up,  for  these  were  his  own  themes. 
•  He  lived  up  by  at  the  heid  of  the  loch,  ye  ken,  and  he's  buried 
in  the  sma*  glen.' 

'A  bit  of  him,  eh,  Malky?  Some  say  he's  buried  down  at 
the  Rumbling  Brig,  but  we  won't  quarrel  over  Ossian's  grave. 
Have  you  ever  heard  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Malky  ?  ' 


136  SHEILA. 

'  Rob  whiles  speaks  aboot  him.' 

'  He  was  a  great  man.  I'll  send  you  one  of  his  books.  It  is 
called  Waverley,  and  is  written  about  Glenquaich.  He  once 
stopped  in  the  inn  at  Amulree,  but  nobody  knew.  Would  you 
like  to  read  it  ?  ' 

'  Ay  wad  I.' 

4  Well,  I'll  send  it.  Stick  into  your  books,  and  maybe  you'll 
be  Sir  Malcolm  Menzies  some  day.  Never  mind  anything  else. 
What  are  ye  making  such  a  face  at,  Malky  ?  ' 

In  the  grey  distance  a  horse  and  rider  were  rapidly  approach- 
ing, and  Fergus  recognised  Puddin'  M'Bean.  He  was  always 
called  Puddin'  yet,  to  distinguish  him  from  his  father.  Puddin' 
had  developed  into  a  very  genteel  young  gentleman,  and  had 
all  the  airs  of  a  college-bred  man.  He  would  never  be  good- 
looking,  for,  though  much  thinner,  his  figure  was  still  too 
broadly  proportioned  to  be  elegant,  and  his  hair  was  as  red 
and  his  face  as  freckled  as  ever.  He  was  going  away  to  Edin- 
burgh to  serve  a  time  in  the  office  of  a  Writer  to  the  Signet, 
and  also  to  attend  some  law  classes,  all  with  a  view  to  fitting 
himself  to  be  factor  on  an  estate. 

*  Hulloa,  Macleod !  been  at  the  Fauld,  eh  ?  '  he  said,  drawing 
in  his  pony  sharply,  and  turning  him  round  till  his  hind  legs 
were  dangerously  near  to  Malcolm  Menzies.  '  What  time  are 
you  going  off  on  Monday?  I've  been  up  at  Dalmore.' 

'  Have  you? '  asked  Fergus  stiffly. 

1  Yes.  I  was  asked  up  to  tea  with  Miss  Macdonald,1 
said  Puddin',  glorying  in  the  words.  '  Get  out  of  the 
way,  Malcolm  Menzies.  Don't  you  see  you're  annoying  my 
pony?' 

'  What  div  I  care  ? '  asked  Malcolm,  and  there  was  positively 
a  malignant  look  on  his  face. 

'  Get  out  of  the  way,  or  I'll  let  you  taste  my  whip-end,'  said 
Puddin'  angrily,  but  Fergus  gripped  him  by  the  arm. 

'  Malcolm  Menzies  is  with  me,  and  the  road  is  not  yours, 
M'Bean,'  he  said  quietly,  but  meaningly.  'I'll  punch  your 
head  if  you  don't  ride  on.' 

'  Oh,  very  well.  I  beg  your  pardon,  and  Mr.  Malcolm 
Menzies's  pardon  likewise,'  said  Angus  scoffingly.  '  Judge  a 


MALCOLM.  137 

man  by  the  company  he  keeps.     I  don't  admire  yours,  Fergus 
Macleod.' 

And,  being  at  a  safe  distance,  Puddin'  laughed  a  mocking 
laugh,  which  made  Fergus  long  to  let  him  feel  the  weight  of  his 
strong  right  arm. 

'Never  mind  him,  Malky.  He  knows  no  better,'  said  Fergus 
soothingly,  for  he  saw  that  his  companion's  passion  was  rising. 
'  Where  were  we  at?  Oh,  about  Sir  Walter  Scott.' 

'  I'll  be  into  him  some  day,  an'  if  I  begin  I'll  no1  let  him  aft 
easy,'  said  Malcolm,  with  an  oath. 

It  gave  Fergus  quite  a  shock  to  hear  an  oath  fall  from  the 
lips  of  Malcolm  Menzies,  but  he  took  no  notice  of  it. 

'  Never  mind  him,  Malky.  He's  just  as  impudent  to  me,  and 
I  never  think  of  minding  him.  Do  you  mind  the  day  I  thrashed 
him,  and  the  other  day  I  dookit  him  for  telling  on  you,  when 
we  were  all  at  Peter  Crerar's  school  ? ' 

But  the  cloud  would  not  lift  from  Malcolm's  brow.  It  was 
indeed  as  Rob  had  said.  He  cherished  a  mortal  hatred  against 
the  M'Beans,  both  father  and  son. 

'Malky,  do  you  ever  tell  Miss  Sheila  about  your  songs  when 
she  comes  down  ? '  asked  Fergus,  making  one  more  effort  to 
change  the  subject.  To  his  unspeakable  amazement,  Malcolm, 
instead  of  giving  an  answer,  turned  round  and  ran  off  as  if 
pursued  by  something  evil. 

Fergus  looked  after  him  a  moment,  not  without  apprehen- 
sion lest  it  was  Puddin'  he  was  after ;  but  Malcolm  turned  off 
the  road,  and  cut  through  the  moss  at  Lynmore  towards  the 
Fauld. 

Fergus  laughed.  Malcolm  was  certainly  queer.  He  did  not, 
however,  connect  his  extraordinary  action  in  any  way  with  the 
mention  of  Sheila's  name.  Fergus  quickened  his  pace  when  his 
companion  left  him,  and  his  heart  was  full  of  bitterness.  He 
remembered  the  fact  that  Angus  M'Bean  should  be  an  invited 
guest  at  Dalmore.  The  factor's  son,  ill-natured,  loutish  Angus 
M'Bean,  drinking  tea  with  Sheila  in  the  drawing-room!  Surely 
Rob  had  not  exaggerated,  and  the  M'Beans  had  too  sure  a  hold 
on  Dalmore.  For  two  or  three  years  now  Fergus  had  seen  very 
little  of  Sheila,  and  had  spoken  with  his  uncle  only  once 


'38 


SHEILA. 


the  previous  Christmas.  He  was  never  asked  to  Dalmore,  and 
his  mother  never  encouraged  him  to  go.  Nevertheless,  when 
he  came  to  the  school  corner  that  night,  he  turned  along  the 
Crieff  road  towards  the  Girron  Brig.  He  had  an  errand  to 
Dalmore. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


UNCLE    GRAHAM. 


And  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth. 


COLERIDGE. 


•  HEN  Fergus  reached  the  house,  he  did  not  at  once 
enter,  as  he  had  been  wont  to  do,  without  giving 
any  notice  of  his  presence.  He  was  now  almost  a 
stranger  in  Dalmore,  and,  besides,  the  familiar 
freedom  of  childhood  had  given  place  to  the  shyness  of 
youth.  So,  after  looking  about  him  with  an  interest  quite  as 
keen  if  less  boisterous  than  of  yore,  he  pulled  the  hall  bell. 
A  strange  servant  who  did  not  know  him  answered  to  his 
summons. 

*  Can  I  see  the  Laird — Mr.  Macdonald  ? '  he  asked. 

'  I  don't  know,  sir.     The  Laird  sees  very  few.     But  I  can 
take  your  message  and  your  name.' 

*  Perhaps   I  can   see   Miss   Macdonald    then,'   said    Fergus 
quickly.     '  My  name  is  Macleod.     You  do  not  know  me,   I 
see.     I  live  at  Shonnen  Lodge.' 

*  Oh,   I  beg  pardon ! '    said  the  woman.     '  Come  in.     Miss 
Macdonald  is  in  the  drawing-room  with  her  governess.' 

*  Thank  you,  I  can  go  up ;    I  know  the  way,'  said  the  lad,  with 
a  smile.     '  You  need  not  tell  my  uncle ;   Miss  Macdonald  will 
take  me  to  him.' 


140  SHEILA. 

It  was  a  simple  thing,  and  the  woman  could  not  be  expected 
to  know  him,  yet  his  reception  chilled  the  already  full  heart  of 
Fergus  Macleod.  Inch  by  inch  he  was  drifting  away  from 
Dalmore,  and  now  he  was  verily  a  stranger  within  its  gates. 
He  paused  on  the  drawing-room  landing,  for  the  memory  of 
the  last  time  he  had  been  in  the  house  swept  over  him.  It 
was  indeed  true  that  he  had  not  been  within  Dalmore  since  the 
day  of  his  aunt's  burying. 

There  was  no  sound  issuing  from  the  drawing-room;  if  it 
held  two  occupants,  they  were  not  conversing.  But  with  a 
light,  somewhat  hesitating  knock,  Fergus  opened  the  door  and 
went  in.  By  the  fire,  deeply  engrossed  in  the  pages  of  a  book, 
was  a  young  girl  with  two  long  plaits  of  bright  brown  hair 
hanging  down  her  back,  and  a  sweet  girlish  face  supported  in 
her  hand,  while  her  dark  eyes  eagerly  scanned  the  fascinating 
Waverley,  which  was  even  then  creating  a  great  talk  in  the 
district.  Could  that  be  Sheila,  the  little  mite  in  pinafores,  who 
had  come  with  such  joyous  anticipations  with  her  mother  to 
Dalmore  !  The  years  had  changed  her,  and  yet  dealt  tenderly 
with  her ;  as  he  looked,  Fergus  thought  he  had  never  seen  a 
creature  more  passing  fair. 

She  was  so  engrossed  that  she  did  not  hear  him  come  in, 
but  when  Tory,  grown  old  and  cross,  gave  a  short  warning 
bark,  Sheila  looked  round  in  surprise,  and  then  sprang  to 
her  feet. 

'  Fergus,  Fergus,  is  it  really  you  ? '  she  cried,  with  all  the 
old  frankness,  and  she  advanced  towards  him  with  both  her 
hands  outstretched.  There  was  all  the  familiarity  of  childhood 
mingling  curiously  with  the  shyness  of  young  girlhood  in  her 
look  and  action. 

'  Yes ;  I  thought  you  would  have  forgotten  all  about  me, 
Sheila,'  said  Fergus,  and  they  shook  hands  quietly;  then  a 
curious  constraint  fell  upon  them.  The  old  bairnly  love  was 
still  between  them,  but  the  years  had  raised  a  little  barrier 
which  could  not  be  bridged  all  at  once, 

'  Your  governess  is  not  with  you,  Sheila  ?  '  said  Fergus  then. 

'  She  was  here  a  little  ago.  She  has  gone  to  her  own  room. 
Have  you  come  to  stay  at  Shonnen  for  a  while  ?  ' 


UNCLE  GRAHAM.  14, 

'No.  I  am  going  away  to  Edinburgh  on  Monday.  Did 
Angus  M'Bean  not  tell  you?  I  met  him  riding  home  from 
here.' 

*  He  said  he  was  going,  but  we  never  spoke  of  you.     What 
a  dandy  he  has  grown ! '  said  Sheila,  with  a  little  laugh,  which 
somehow  put  Fergus  more  at  his  ease. 

'  Ay,  he  has  a  great  conceit.  I  have  come  up  from  the 
Fauld,  Sheila,  Katie  Menzies  told  me  you  were  going  away 
to  school.' 

'  Yes,  for  a  year  to  London,  Fergus.  I  don't  want  to  go, 
but  Aunt  Ailsa  has  insisted  on  it.  She  says  I  must  see  some- 
thing more ;  and  two  of  her  other  nieces,  her  brother's  girls 
from  Suffolk,  are  at  the  same  school.  I  don't  like  to  leave 
papa.' 

'  How  is  Uncle  Graham  ?  He  is  just  like  a  shadow  to  me  now, 
Sheila.  I  hear  people  speaking  about  him,  but  nobody  seems 
to  know  very  much  about  him.' 

'  He  is  not  very  well,  poor  papa.'  Sheila's  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  She  was  only  a  girl  yet,  but  she  had  acted  a  woman's 
part  in  Dalmore.  Like  Fergus,  she  had  known  very  little  of 
the  ordinary  pursuits  and  joys  of  childhood. 

*  Can  I  see  him  ?  ' 

'Of  course.  Will  you  come  just  now?  He  will  have  had 
his  dinner.  We  do  not  all  dine  together  now  because  papa  is 
not  able.' 

'  Does  he  ever  speak  about  me,  Sheila  ? ' 

'  Not  often.  I  don't  think  you  have  behaved  very  well  to 
him,  Fergus.  You  never  come  to  see  him  when  you  are  at 
Shonnen.' 

'  I  had  to  obey  my  mother,  Sheila.  She  will  be  angry  to- 
night when  she  knows  I  am  here.' 

Sheila  was  silent.  She  too,  like  Fergus,  was  beginning  to 
understand  things.  She  knew  what  had  built  up  the  barrier 
between  Shonnen  and  Dalmore. 

'  I  heard  a  great  lot  of  strange  things  at  the  Fauld  to- 
day, Sheila.  Did  you  know  the  folks  are  talking  of  leaving  it  ? ' 

'Yes,  I  know.  Oh,  Fergus  Macleod,  everything  is  going 
wronpj ! '  said  Sheila,  her  tears  starting  afresh. 


142  SHEILA. 

'  Does  Uncle  Graham  know  about  it  ?  Surely  he  will  never 
permit  it.' 

'  He  knows,  but  he  is  very  angry  with  the  poor  people  ;  I 
do  not  know  why,'  said  Sheila  perplexedly.  '  They  must 
have  behaved  very  badly  to  him,  but  I  can't  believe  it.' 

'  Nor  I.  Somebody  is  telling  lies  about  them,  Sheila,'  said 
Fergus  hotly.  '  That  is  why  I  have  come  up.  I  want  to  tell 
my  uncle  how  hardly  they  are  used.' 

'  Perhaps  you  will  be  able  to  prevent  them  going  away,'  said 
Sheila  hopefully.  '  Will  you  come  now  to  his  room  ?  He  sits 
always  in  the  library,  and  has  his  bed  in  the  little  parlour  off  it.' 

*  Very  well,'  said  Fergus,  rising  readily,  his  heart  beginning 
to  beat  with  a  little  nervousness  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  his 
uncle.  So  the  two  went  down-stairs  again  side  by  side,  but 
never  speaking  a  word.  Even  in  these  early  days  they  looked 
a  handsome,  well-matched  pair,  the  ruddy  lace,  blue  eyes,  and 
yellow  hair  of  Fergus  contrasting  well  with  Sheila's  dark  loveli- 
ness. She  was  yet  in  her  unformed  girlhood,  in  spite  of  her 
quiet,  dignified,  womanly  way,  but  it  was  a  girlhood  full  of 
loveliest  promise. 

Sheila  gave  a  low  soft  knock  at  the  library  door  and  then 
opened  it,  signifying  to  Fergus  to  remain  a  moment  in  the  shadow 
of  the  doorway,  till  she  should  announce  his  presence. 

The  sombre,  dismal  appearance  of  the  room,  with  all  its 
comforts,  chilled  Fergus  Macleod,  it  seemed  to  speak  so  loudly 
of  a  man's  broken  hopes  and  retirement  from  the  world.  In 
the  big  old  red  leather  chair  close  to  the  gleaming  hearth  sat 
Macdonald,  a  feeble  old  man. 

'  Dear  papa,  have  you  had  your  dinner  ? '  Sheila  asked, 
and  when  she  reached  his  side,  she  smoothed  his  grey  hair  back 
from  his  forehead  with  her  white  soft  hand. 

'Yes,  such  as  it  was.     What  is  it,  Sheila ?  ' 

'  I  have  brought  some  one  to  see  you — some  one  who  loves 
you  very  much.  It  is  Fergus.  Come  in,  Fergus.' 

Fergus  came  forward,  and  his  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  he 
extended  his  hand  to  his  uncle. 

'  How  are  you,  Uncle  Graham  ?  We  have  not  seen  each  other 
for  a  long  time.' 


UNCLE  GRAHAM.  143 

'No.' 

Macdonald's  keen  eye  scanned  the  boy  with  a  look  which 
would  have  read  his  soul.  It  seemed  to  question  his  sincerity, 
and  his  object  in  coining  to  Dalmore.  '  What  do  you  want, 
lad  ?  Something,  I'll  be  bound,  or  you  would  not  be  here.' 

The  tone  was  not  harsh,  but  it  implied  distrust  and  sus- 
picion, which  Fergus  keenly  felt.  Sheila,  conscious  of  it  too, 
slipped  away  out  of  the  room. 

'  I  wanted  to  see  you,  Uncle  Graham.  Oh,  how  changed 
you  are  I  Surely  you  are  very  ill.' 

'They  say  I  have  no  ailment,  and  that  young  doctor  who 
has  come  to  Dunkeld  told  me  yesterday  that  it  was  a  sin  for 
me  to  sit  here,  and  that  if  I  had  only  the  desire  I  might  be 
quite  well.  It  was  an  honest  advice,  but  the  young  man  does 
not  know.  You  have  grown.  What  are  you  about  now  ? ' 

Macdonald  was  intimately  acquainted  with  the  whole  way 
of  life  at  Shonnen,  and  knew  every  movement  made  by  his 
sister  and  her  son,  thanks  to  Mr.  Angus  M'Bean,  but  it  pleased 
him  to  question  Fergus  himself. 

'I  am  going  away  to  the  college  in  Edinburgh  on  Monday, 
Uncle  Graham,  to  study  for  my  degree.' 

'  Ah,  are  we  to  see  you  in  the  pulpit  in  Amulree  Kirk  yet, 
then?' 

'No,  not  that  degree.  I'll  never  make  a  minister,'  said 
Fergus  quickly. 

'  Then  what  are  ye  to  make  of  yourself  ? '  asked  the  old  man, 
bending  his  brows  keenly  on  the  boy's  face. 

'  I  don't  know  yet,  Uncle  Graham.  I  daresay  I  shall  get 
something  to  do,'  said  Fergus  bravely,  though  his  heart  was 
full  to  bursting.  Never  had  his  uncle  received  him  so  coldly, 
and  treated  him  with  such  scornful  harshness.  What  did  it 
mean? 

'  And  what's  your  mother  saying  to  it  now  ? ' 

'Nothing;  she  knows  I  am  not  to  be  a  minister  at  any 
rate.' 

'Ay,  perhaps  she  has  other  views,'  said  Macdonald  drily. 
'  So  you  think  me  changed,  boy?  and  why  not?  I  am  an  old 
man,  sixty-three  in  November.' 


144  SI1E1LA. 

'That  is  not  very  old,  Uncle  Graham.  There  are  plenty 
men  far  older  even  in  Achnafauld.  Look  at  Donald  M'Glashan's 
father,  and  Roddie  Maclean  past  seventy,  and  William  Suther- 
land eighty-one,  and  can  build  dykes  yet,'  said  Fergus  cheer- 
fully. 

'  So  you  are  still  sib  to  all  the  Fauld  folk,  and  they  think  you 
a  fine  young  fellow,  no  doubt,  and  make  a  hero  and  a  martyr 
of  you,'  said  Macdonald,  again  with  that  suspicious  harshness 
which  so  vexed  the  heart  of  the  boy,  because  he  could  not 
understand  it.  He  was  not  yet  sufficiently  versed  in  the  guile 
of  the  world  to  comprehend  or  even  suspect  the  underhanded 
villainy  of  Angus  M'Bean.  He  did  not  like  the  man,  certainly, 
but  had  not  the  remotest  idea  of  the  way  he  had  worked 
upon  his  uncle,  and  poisoned  his  mind  against  all  truth  and 
right. 

'  I  have  always  gone  back  and  forward  to  the  Fauld, 
Uncle  Graham,  more  since  the  winter  I  went  to  Peter 
Crerar's  school,'  he  said  in  surprise.  '  I  was  there  to-day. 
They  are  in  a  sad  way  at  the  Fauld.  Do  you  know  about 
them?' 

4  What  about  them  ?  ' 

'That  they  are  so  hardly  dealt  with,  they  are  thinking  of 
leaving  the  place.' 

'  Let  them  go  I  an  ungrateful  pack !  let  them  go !  and  a 
good  riddance,'  said  Macdonald  fiercely.  'Their  greed  and 
their  idleness  surpasses  anything,  and  makes  the  blood  boil. 
Their  pockets  are  lined  with  gold,  they  have  bank  accounts  in 
Crieff  and  Aberfeldy  bigger  than  mine,  but  they  have  a  pauper's 
soul,  every  man  among  them.' 

Fergus  was  terrified  at  the  violence  of  his  uncle's  anger,  and 
sat  silent. 

'  Of  course  you  are  on  their  side.  I  have  heard  of  you, 
though  you  have  kept  wisely  away  from  Dalmore,  Fergus. 
You  are  young,  and  easily  imposed  upon,  and  so  .are  to  be 
excused.  The  Fauld  cottars  are  like  the  daughters  of  the 
horseleech.  They  have  but  one  cry,  and  that  is,  Give  1  I  have 
given  them  of  my  substance,  potatoes  for  their  seed,  and  for- 
given them  arrears,  while  they  fed  their  beasts  on  my  pastures 


UNCLE  GRAHAM.  145 

and  burned  my  peats,  and  laughed  in  my  face.  That  good 
servant  and  faithful  friend,  Angus  M'Bean,  has  opened  my 
eyes,  and  now  I  know  them  for  what  they  are.  And  1  never 
beard  better  news  than  that  they  are  going  off  to  this  new- 
fangled country,  because  there  they'll  learn  the  lesson  they 
richly  deserve.' 

Fergus  was  silent  still.  In  face  of  these  remarks,  delivered 
with  an  intensity  which  too  clearly  indicated  the  strength  of 
his  uncle's  conviction,  he  felt  it  useless  to  say  a  word.  He  had 
not,  indeed,  anything  ready  to  reply,  though  he  felt  in  his 
inmost  soul  the  untruth  and  injustice  of  the  opinions  expressed. 
It  was  only  since  Angus  M'Bean  had  begun  to  grind  the  cottars 
under  his  rule  that  they  had  uttered  a  complaint.  He  had 
taken  the  loch  fishing  from  them,  and  the  hill  pasture,  and  had 
even  threatened  to  levy  a  tax  on  the  peat  mosses.  And  though 
these  privileges,  which  had  been  theirs  from  time  immemorial, 
had  been  wrested  from  them,  the  rents  were  maintained  and 
even  added  to  when  any  tack  ran  out,  and  not  a  penny  would 
he  spend  in  repairing  the  miserable  homesteads  and  outhouses 
in  the  place.  It  was  not  to  be  expected  that  the  cottars,  being 
but  human,  could  bear  these  things  in  silence.  No  doubt  they 
had  their  faults :  some  of  them  were  lazy,  and  believed  in 
getting  as  much  as  possible  for  their  money,  but  they  were 
in  the  main  honest,  hard-working,  unoffending  folk,  who  did 
their  duty  as  they  knew  how.  But  Angus  M'Bean  had  tried 
them  beyond  their  endurance,  and  they  had  rebelled. 

'  I  have  found  out  the  mistake  of  small  holdings,  Fergus 
Macleod.  The  actual  money  counted  up  may  amount  to  more 
than  the  rental  of  big  farms,  but  the  privileges  the  cottars  get 
soon  eat  up  the  profits.  Before  I  die,  there  will  be  a  change 
on  the  lands  of  Findowie  and  Dalmore,  and  whoever  comes 
after  me  will  be  spared  the  cottar  pest.' 

Fergus  sat  silent  still.  He  thought  of  many  things  to  say, 
but  seemed  to  be  tongue-tied.  His  uncle's  keen  eyes  never  fur 
a  moment  left  his  face.  He  saw  disapproval  in  its  expression, 
and  it  irritated  him,  even  more  than  openly  expressed  contra- 
diction. 

*  Yon  are  young,  Fergus,  as  I  said,  and  easily  imposed  upon. 
10 


146  SHEILA. 

Although  you  may  never  have  land  to  look  after,  you  may  be 
in  the  way  when  a  good  advice  will  be  of  use.  Treat  all 
men  as  enemies  till  you  prove  them  friends,  and  even 
then  trust  them  no  further  than  you  see  them.  You  are 
disapproving  what  I  say.  Some  day  you  will  remember  it, 
and  know  I  was  right.  Now,  what  did  you  come  here  for 
to-night  ? ' 

'I  came,'  said  Fergus  boldly,  then  turning  his  fearless 
blue  eyes  on  his  uncle's  face,  '  to  tell  you  how  Angus 
M'Bean  oppresses  the  folk.  He  is  a  wicked  and  cruel 
man,  and  he  tells  lies  about  them  to  you.  You  can  be  angry 
if  you  like,  Uncle  Graham ;  I  know  I  am  speaking  the  truth.' 

'  Ay,  ay !  it  is  but  as  Angus  said.  He  is  a  shrewd  man. 
Did  ye  not  come  up,  Fergus,  to  see  whether  I  was  near  my 
end  ?  Are  ye  hungering  after  the  place,  like  your  neighbours 
in  theFauld?' 

Young  though  he  was,  Fergus  Macleod  understood  and 
keenly  felt  the  insinuation  his  uncle  made.  He  sprang  up,  the 
ruddy  colour  deepening  on  his  face,  and  turned  about  without 
a  word  to  seek  the  door.  He  had  his  hot  temper  too,  and  was 
easily  roused  to  anger. 

'  Come  back,  ye  whelp !  that  touches  ye  on  the  sore  bit,' 
said  Macdonald,  grimly  enjoying  the  boy's  discomfiture.  '  Come 
back  and  sit  down.  Be  honest  now,  Fergus  Macleod.  Have 
ye  not  begun  to  think  what  fine  things  you  would  do  were 
you  Laird  of  Dalmore  ? ' 

*  Uncle  Graham,  I'm  going  away  home.  Good-night,'  said 
Fergus  quietly. 

'What  are  ye  greetin'  for,  ye  big  bairn?  I  would  like 
ye  none  the  less  were  ye  to  tell  me  honestly.  It's  but 
what  I  expect,'  said  Macdonald  gruffly,  yet  with  more  real 
kindness  than  he  had  yet  shown.  '  What  are  ye  looking  at 
now?' 

'At  that,'  said  Fergus,  pointing  with  his  forefinger  to  a 
portrait  of  his  uncle's  wife  which  hung  above  the  fireplace,  and 
which  he  never  remembered  having  seen  before. 

Graham  Macdonald's  eye  followed  the  lad's  gesture  and 
glance,  and  his  head  fell  down  upon  his  breast.  If  Angus 


UNCLE  GRAHAM.  147 

M'Bean  had  only  known  it,  the  sweet  pathetic  mouth  and  the 
mild  eyes  of  that  speaking  likeness  were  the  strongest  barrier 
in  the  way  of  his  high-handed  dealing  with  the  people. 

Ay,  had  the  mistress  of  Dalmore  but  lived,  there  had  been 
better  days  for  the  people  of  Achnufauld. 

'  Leave  me,  boy,  just  now,'  said  Macdonald  at  length,  while 
Fergus  stood  irresolute  at  the  door,  bis  heart  yearning  over 
his  uncle.  *  Come  again  when  you  are  at  Shonnen  ;  Sheila 
likes  to  see  you.' 

And  with  that  Fergus  had  to  be  content.  He  had  no  heart 
to  go  back  to  the  drawing-room,  but  Sheila,  listening  for  his 
step,  came  running  down  to  say  good-bye. 

'Are  you  not  coming  up  a  little  while,  Fergus?'  she  asked 
timidly. 

4  No ;  my  mother  will  wonder  why  I  have  been  so  long. 
Good-bye,  Sheila ;  I  hope  you  will  like  the  boarding-school.' 

'  I  don't  think  I  shall,'  she  said,  as  she  gave  him  her  hand. 

Poor  bairns !  they  were  both  miserable,  they  did  not  know 
why. 

'  You'll  come  back  a  fine  lady,  Sheila,  who  has  forgotten  all 
about  her  old  chum,'  said  Fergus. 

4  No,  no,  I  won't.  Oh,  Fergus  Macleod,  I  wish  the  days  we 
used  to  fish  in  the  Girron  Burn,  you  and  Colin  and  me,  could 
come  back,  I  am  so  lonely  up  here  by  myself.' 

'  You  have  Uncle  Graham  and  Puddin'  M'Bean,'  said  Fergus, 
with  a  kind  of  subdued  viciousness  which  gave  his  feelings 
immense  relief.  Then,  though  her  eyes  were  wet,  a  peal  of 
laughter  broke  from  Sheila's  lips  which  woke  a  thousand  sweet 
echoes  through  the  quiet  house. 

'You  might  give  me  a  kiss  for  Colin's  sake,'  said  Fergus  in 
a  queer,  shy  way.  '  We  won't  likely  see  each  other  for  a  long 
time.' 

'  I'll  kiss  you  for  your  own  sake,  Fergus,'  said  Sheila  frankly 
and  sweetly,  and  without  a  shade  of  embarrassment.  In  many 
things  she  was  but  a  child  still. 

It  was  many  a  long  day  before  they  kissed  each  other  again. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 


MOTHER    AND   SON. 

He  mast  gain  his  end 
Although  in  gaining  he  offend 
Or  even  sacrifice  a  friend. 


J.  B.  SELKIRK. 


HE  years  had  dealt  very  gently  with  Ellen  Macleod. 
She  had  not  much  to  trouble  her  in  her  house  of 
Shonnen.  Her  means  were  sufficient  for  her  needs, 
and  Fergus  was  her  only  anxiety.  She  had  trained 
him  to  strict  obedience,  and  had  hitherto  had  no  reason  to  com- 
plain of  him.  He  had  gone  to  Perth,  and  shared  Puddin' 
M'Bean's  lodging  without  saying  a  word,  though  he  felt  it 
keenly.  The  close  intimacy  of  that  semi-home  life  had  not  at 
all  increased  Fergus  Macleod's  liking  for  the  cowardly  boy  who 
had  made  himself  so  obnoxious  to  the  Fauld  bairns.  But  he 
stifled  these  feelings,  and  did  his  best  to  get  along  comfortably 
with  Angus  when  they  were  at  school. 

Angus,  who  had  a  wholesome  memory  of  the  smart  punish- 
ment Fergus  had  twice  inflicted  upon  him,  left  him  in  peace. 
But  though  the  boys  ate,  and  learned,  and  slept  together,  they 
were  in  no  sense  of  the  word  chums,  and  it  was  a  mistake  to 
put  them  together.  That  trial,  one  of  no  ordinary  kind  for 
Fergus,  was  now  past,  and  his  college  days  promised  fairer  than 
those  he  had  spent  at  school.  He  need  not  see  anything  of 
Puddin'  unless  he  liked,  and  that  was  something.  Ellen  Macleod 


MOTHER  AND  SON.  149 

had  not  relinquished  the  hope  of  seeing  Fergus  a  minister  yet, 
though  she  had  learned  to  hold  her  peace  about  it.  She  had 
also  another  hope,  of  which  she  said  even  less.  The  only 
person  to  whom  she  spoke  of  it  with  any  freedom  was  Angus 
M'Bean,  the  factor.  That  astute  individual  was  playing  a 
double  game,  which  in  the  end  would  result  in  his  own  dis- 
comfiture. In  the  meantime,  however,  he  was  flourishing  like 
the  proverbial  green  bay  tree.  The  house  of  Auchloy  had 
been  enlarged  and  adorned  until  it  looked  more  like  a  small 
mansion  than  a  farmer's  abode.  Mrs.  M'Bean  had  now  her 
cook  and  housemaid,  with  whom,  poor  body,  she  had  but  a 
sorry  time.  A  drawing-room  furnished  in  green  satin  and 
adorned  by  numerous  white  starched  tidies  and  woollen  mats 
was  at  once  the  anxiety  and  the  pride  of  her  life.  Then  the 
two  Miss  M'Beans  were  being  educated  at  a  select  school  in 
Perth,  from  which  they  would  shortly  return,  full  of  airs,  if 
not  of  graces,  to  further  exercise  the  spirit  of  their  plain  but  truly 
good-hearted  mother.  Had  Mrs.  M'Bean  not  stood  in  mortal 
terror  of  her  spouse,  she  would  have  given  him  a  piece  of  her 
mind  about  his  dealings  with  the  peasantry,  of  which  she  did 
not  at  all  approve.  Her  sympathies  were  entirely  with  her  old 
neighbours  in  the  Fauld,  and  she  gave  them  many  substantial 
expressions  of  it  out  of  her  husband's  knowledge. 

It  was  half-past  seven  that  night  when  Fergus  opened  the 
garden  gate  at  Shonnen.  He  had  walked  round  by  the  road  and 
across  the  Amulree  Bridge,  the  night  being  too  dark  for  him 
to  cross  the  Braan  by  the  stepping-stones.  He  had  not  hurried 
on  his  way,  however,  being  engrossed  by  his  own  thoughts. 
There  were  many  things  weighing  on  the  boy's  mind  and  heart. 

'  You  are  very  late,  Fergus,'  his  mother  said,  in  her  habitually 
severe  voice.  Fergus  could  certainly  not  associate  anything 
bright  with  his  mother.  She  still  wore  the  repulsive  head- 
dress which,  as  a  child,  had  frightened  him,  the  only  alteration 
being  that  she  had  cut  off  the  long  crape  which  used  to  hang 
down  her  back. 

*  Oh,  mother,  I  am  very  sorry  I  I  hope  you  did  not  wait,' 
cried  Fergus  in  his  quick  way,  the  spread  table  reminding  him 
of  tea. 


150  SHEILA. 

'  Of  coarse  I  waited.  Ring  the  bell  for  Jessie  Mackenzie  to 
bring  in  the  teapot,  and  tell  me  where  you  have  been.' 

Tea  was  still  on  the  table  in  the  dining-room,  and  his  mother 
severely  sitting  by  the  fire  waiting. 

Fergus  was  so  accustomed  to  be  cross-examined,  and  to  give 
a  minute  account  of  his  doings,  that  he  thought  nothing  of  it. 

'  I  was  at  the  Fauld,  mother,  seeing  all  the  old  people. 
Jenny  Menzies  can't  stand  or  walk  now  with  her  rheumatism. 
But  Katie  is  a  great  help.  Mother,  you  wouldn't  know  Katie 
Menzies  now,  she  is  such  a  bonnie  girl.' 

'  Seeing  I  never  saw  her,  I  don't  suppose  I  should,'  said  Ellen 
Macleod  drily. 

'  You  know  who  she  is,  though,  mother,'  said  Fergus,  with 
his  mouth  full.  'And  Malcolm  is  quite  a  man.  Then  I  saw 
Rob  Macnaughton,  and  that  was  alL  Oh,  mother,  just  think  1 
The  folks  are  speaking  about  emigrating,  of  going  away  to 
America,  actually.  Isn't  it  fearful  ? ' 

*  What's  set  them  to  think  of  that?'  asked  Ellen  Macleod 
quietly,  though  she  knew  the  whole  affairs  of  the  Fauld  better 
than  Fergus  could  tell  her.  It  was  long  since  she  had  heard 
the  emigration  rumour. 

'  Oh,  the  shameful  way  they  are  treated  by  Angus  M'Bean ' 
cried  Fergus  hotly.  'You  wouldn't  believe  how  they  are 
treated.  Do  you  know,  mother,  there  is  hardly  a  horse  or  a 
cow  in  the  Fauld  now,  and  not  a  sheep?  The  hill  pasture  is 
taken  from  them.  It's  perfectly  abominable  the  way  Angus 
M'Bean  is  doing,  and  the  worst  of  it  all  is,  that  he  has  made 
Uncle  Graham  believe  they  are  to  blame.  Mother,  I  do  think 
he  is  a  horrid,  bad,  greedy  man.' 

'  So  they've  stuffed  your  head  finely  for  you  at  the  Fauld,' 
said  Ellen  Macleod,  with  that  curious  smile  of  hers,  which  was 
no  smile  at  all.  '  Did  you  never  hear  that  every  story  has  two 
sides,  Fergus  ? ' 

'Oh,  I  know,  but  anybody  can  see  whose  side  is  right. 
Mother,  how  can  they  make  a  living  and  pay  their  rents  ofl 
these  little  crofts,  when  they've  nothing  to  feed  a  beast  on  ? ' 

'They  wouldn't  say  anything  about  their  spinning  and 
weaving.  Go  up  to  Tirchardie  Mill  when  you've  time,  Fergus, 


MOTHER  AND  SON.  151 

and  see  what  Walter  Lachlan  has  to  say  about  the  Fauld  folks 
and  their  earnings.' 

'But,  mother,  they  can't  spin  and  weave  when  they've  no 
wool,  nor  sheep  to  clip  ? '  maintained  Fergus  hotly. 

'They  spin  flax  yet,  though.' 

'  Yes,  but  if  they  grow  flax  on  their  crofts,  they  can't  grow 
corn  and  potatoes,'  said  Fergus  shrewdly.  'Oh,  mother,  you 
know  I  am  right,  and  it's  a  cruel  shame  the  way  they  are 
treated — that's  what  I  think.' 

'  Were  you  anywhere  else  than  the  Fauld,  then  ?  I  thought 
you  had  maybe  gone  up  to  Auchloy  to  your  tea.' 

'0  no,  thank  you!  I've  seen  plenty  of  Pud  din';  and  his 
sisters  are  awful,  mother.  You  should  hear  their  fine  English,' 
said  Fergus,  with  boyish  candour.  '  But  I've  been  up  at 
Dalmore.' 

'At  Dalmore !'  Ellen  Macleod's  brow  darkened.  'What 
were  you  doing  there  ? ' 

*  I  went  to  see  Uncle  Graham.' 

'  And  did  you  see  him  ? '  she  asked,  her  curiosity  getting  the 
better  of  her  annoyance. 

'  Yes,  I  saw  him.' 

'  Is  it  true  he  is  as  ill  as  they  say  ? ' 

'Mother,  I  don't  think  Uncle  Graham  will  live  long,'  said 
Fergus,  and  his  lips  quivered.  Memory  was  faithful  in  the 
boy's  true  heart.  The  sad  changes  the  years  had  wrought 
could  not  destroy  his  old-time  confidence,  his  old-time  love  for 
Uncle  Graham. 

'  What  did  he  say  to  you?' 

'Not  very  much.  He  does  not  care  about  me  now,  I  tnink,' 
said  Fergus,  in  a  low,  uncertain  voice,  for  there  was  a  lump  in 
his  throat. 

'Did  yuu  think  he  would? '  asked  his  mother,  in  bitter  scorn. 
'  Your  day  is  past,  my  lad.  Did  you  see  the  girl,  his  daughter, 
as  he  calls  her  ? ' 

«Yes,  I  saw  Sheila.' 

'It  is  she  who  has  turned  your  uncle  against  you,  and  who 
has  supplanted  you  in  Dalmore.' 

'I  don't  care  for  that.     I  don't  believe  it.     I  like  Sheila. 


152  SHEILA. 

She  is  as  different  from  Bessie  and  Kate  M'Bean  as  night  from 
day.  I  never  saw  a  nicer  girl  in  my  life  than  Sheila,  and  I'm 
very  sorry  for  her.  She  is  miserable  up  in  that  lonely  house.1 

'  Boy,  you  have  a  craven  spirit.  How  will  you  look  when 
your  uncle  is  carried  to  Shian,  and  that  chit  is  lady  of 
Dalmore  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know,'  said  Fergus,  in  a  low  voice.  '  She  will  be 
kind  to  the  people,  anyway.  She  won't  believe  all  Angus 
M'Bean  tells  her.' 

'  Fergus  Macleod,  you  have  a  causeless  resentment  against 
Angus  M'Bean,  who  is  your  true  friend  and  mine,'  said  Ellen 
Macleod,  in  a  low,  impressive  voice.  '  You  are  sixteen  and  a 
half  years  old,  and  should  understand  things  now,  so  I  shall 
speak  plainly  to  you.  Angus  M'Bean  is  doing  his  utmost  to 
work  against  the  influence  that  girl  and  the  Murrays  have  over 
your  uncle.  I  don't  blame  her  much  as  yet,  for  she  is  young ; 
but  the  Murrays  are  doing  their  utmost  to  get  your  uncle  to 
make  her  his  heiress,  and  if  they  succeed,  you  will  be  a  nameless 
beggar  on  the  face  of  the  earth.' 

'  Oh,  mother,  I  am  not  a  beggar  just  now.  I  shall  not  be 
any  worse  off  then,  shall  I?'  asked  Fergus,  not  greatly 
impressed  by  his  mother's  speech. 

'  Boy,  you  make  me  think  shame  for  you,'  she  cried,  growing 
whil;e  with  passion.  *  Have  you  no  ambition  for  yourself? 
Will  you  be  perfectly  well  pleased  to  see  Sheila  Murray  and 
her  horde  of  relatives  ruling  in  Dalmore.  Your  heritage ! 
What  right  have  they  with  it?  If  Graham  Macdonald  wilfully 
passes  over  his  own  kindred  at  the  last,  a  curse  will  dwell  upon 
Dalmore.  I  will  invoke  it  if  none  else  will.' 

Ah,  Ellen  Macleod!  it  is  long  since  your  evil  resentment 
cursed  Dalmore.  By  the  memory  of  her  who  sleeps  in  the 
old  graveyard  at  Shian,  spare  the  innocent  bairn  who  never  did 
you  harm. 

'  Mother,  I  suppose  Uncle  Graham  can  do  what  he  likes  with 
his  own,'  said  Fergus  wearily.  'I  would  like  very  well  to  be 
Laird  of  Dalmore,  for  I  like  the  place  better  than  any  place  in 
the  world.  But  I'm  not  going  to  beg  for  it,  nor  seek  to  turn 
Sheila  out.  If  you  knew  Sheila,  mother,  you  would  feel  the 


MOTHER  AND  SON.  153 

same  as  me.  I  can  work  for  my  living,  and  keep  yon  and 
myself,  too,  yet ;  wait  till  you  see.' 

These  words  were  more  bitter  than  gall  to  the  proud, 
ambitious  heart  of  Ellen  Macleod.  She  almost  hated  the  boy 
for  his  lack  of  spirit,  not  knowing,  poor  blind  creature,  that  he 
was  showing  a  noble,  generous,  unselfish  spirit  a  king  might 
have  envied.  With  all  her  harsh  training,  she  had  not  been 
able  to  warp  or  curb  that  pure  soul,  which  had  a  heritage 
greater  and  more  to  be  desired  than  any  earthly  estate. 

She  rose  from  her  seat  and  flounced  out  of  the  room,  leaving 
Fergus  perplexed  and  more  miserable  than  ever. 

He  drew  in  a  chair  to  the  fire  and  sat  down  to  think  over 
what  his  mother  had  said,  but  his  reverie  was  soon  broken  by 
a  hard  knock  at  the  front  door.  When  he  heard  Angus 
M'Bean's  voice  asking  for  his  mother,  he  rose  up  hurriedly  and 
ran  off  up-stairs  to  his  own  little  room,  feeling  that  he  could  not 
bear  to  meet  the  factor  just  then.  He  shut  the  door  and  sat 
down  by  the  window,  and,  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand,  looked 
out  away  across  by  Amulree,  to  where  a  bonnie  moon  was  rising 
above  Crom  Creagh.  Its  light  did  not  as  yet  touch  Dalmore, 
but  he  knew  the  exact  spot  where  the  house  stood,  and  he  had 
no  need  of  light  to  guide  his  eyes  to  it.  Ay,  the  lad  loved 
Dalmore  with  a  great  love,  and  he  knew  that  to  call  it  his  home, 
and  to  have  in  his  hand  the  welfare  of  the  folk  among  whom  he 
had  been  reared,  would  be  the  happiest  destiny  he  could  ask  on 
earth.  But  though  he  knew  that  there  was  a  grain  of  truth  in 
what  his  mother  had  said,  and  that  Sheila  stood  between  him 
and  Dalmore,  it  made  no  difference  in  his  feeling  towards  her. 
They  had  been  bairns  together,  all  in  all  to  each  other  in  the 
long  days  of  that  first  beautiful  summer  when  they  had  made 
acquaintance  first,  and  the  tie  of  bairnly  love  is  one  which  is 
not  easily  severed.  It  would  take  even  more  than  separation 
from  Dalmore  to  break  the  sweet  spell  of  the  old  trysts  by  the 
Girron  Brig.  He  heard  Angus  M'Bean  go  into  the  dining- 
room  and  his  mother  join  him  there ;  then  the  door  was  shut, 
and  only  the  subdued  murmur  of  voices  indicated  that  they 
were  in  conversation. 

Ellen  Macleod  was  always  courteous  to  Angus  M'Bean,  and 


154  SHEILA. 

believed  him  to  be  her  true  friend,  while  he  was  only  seeking 
to  serve  his  own  ends.  He  knew  the  Laird  was  failing  daily, 
and  as  he  had  as  yet  no  idea  what  were  his  intentions  regarding 
his  property  and  estate,  it  behoved  him  to  keep  on  good  terms 
with  both  Shonnen  and  Dalmore.  He  hoped,  however,  for  his  own 
sake,  that  Sheila  was  to  be  the  heiress.  A  weak,  inexperienced 
girl  would  be  much  more  easily  dealt  with  than  Ellen  Macleod 
and  her  high-spirited,  generous-minded  boy.  If  Fergus  Mac- 
leod ever  became  Laird  of  Dalmore,  Angus  M'Bean  had  a  good 
guess  that  his  own  day  would  be  over.  Therefore  it  behoved 
him  to  make  hay  while  the  sun  shone. 

'  A  fine  night,  but  cold.  Winter  will  be  upon  us  before  we 
know  where  we  are,'  said  the  factor,  as  he  shook  hands  with 
Mrs.  Macleod.  '  It's  a  winter  moon  that's  up  to-night.' 

'Is  it?  Fergus  has  just  come  in.  Excuse  the  table.  Will 
you  have  a  cup  of  tea  ? ' 

'No,  thank  you;  just  come  from  it.  We  have  a  lively 
house  just  now  with  Angus  and  the  girls.  They  are  aye 
squabbling,  and  the  piano  goes  from  morning  till  night,'  said 
the  factor  rather  proudly.  '  I  don't  know  what  the  wife  and  I 
will  do  next  week  when  the  young  folks  leave  us.' 

'Are  your  daughters  going  back  to  school?  They  will  be 
quite  accomplished  young  ladies,'  said  Ellen  Macleod,  not  with- 
out a  touch  of  amused  scorn.  She  was  often  amused  at  the 
conceits  of  the  factor,  and  certainly  thought  his  ideas  above  his 
position. 

'  They  are  smart  girls.  I  own,  and  I'm  expecting  Angus  to  do 
great  things  at  college.  I  hope  he  and  Mr.  Fergus  will  con- 
tinue to  be  friendly,  and  to  keep  each  other  out  of  bad 
company.* 

'I  am  not  afraid  of  my  son,'  said  Ellen  Macleod  rather 
haughtily.  'He  has  been  up  at  Dalmore  seeing  his  uncle 
to-night.' 

'Has  he?  And  what — how  did  they  get  on?'  asked  the 
factor  nervously,  not  at  all  sure  about  what  might  have  been 
the  meaning  or  issue  of  the  interview. 

'The  boy  was  grieved  to  see  his  uncle  so  ill.  He  thinks  him 
dying.  Is  the  Laird  so  far  spent,  Mr.  M'Bean  ? ' 


MOTHER  AND  SON.  155 

'I — I  really  can't  tell.  Of  course  I  am  seeing  him  often. 
Of  course  he  is  weak,  but  that  young  Doctor  Culbard,  who  has 
come  to  Dunkeld, — a  clever  fellow  they  say, —  actually  told  me 
yesterday,  the  Laird  had  not  a  single  ailment,  and  that  he 
might  live  twenty  years  yet,  if  he  would  only  make  up  his 
mind  to  do  it.  But  I  myself  don't  think,  Mrs.  Macleod,  that 
he  will  last  as  many  weeks.' 

'Mr.  M'Bean,'  said  Ellen  Macleod,  with  a  slight  hesitation 
(for  she  had  her  own  pride,  and  it  sometimes  reminded  her  that 
it  was  scarcely  fit  that  she  should  discuss  family  matters  with  a 
servant),  '  have  you  ever  heard  the  Laird  say  aught  about 
Dalmore  ?  Is  it  likely  he  will  leave  the  place  to  Alastair 
Murray's  child  ? ' 

'  The  Lord  forbid ! '  said  the  factor  quickly.  '  There  is  no 
doubt  that  she  will  get  a  good  slice  of  it — Findowie,  perhaps. 
He  was  suggesting  to  me  something  about  repairing  the  old 
house  on  it.  But  he'll  never  pass  by  Mr.  Fergus,  his  own  flesh 
and  blood.' 

'  Has  he  ever  spoken  about  it  to  you  at  all  ? ' 

'  Well,  no,  not  exactly ;  but,  of  course,  I  can  see  his  drift,' 
said  the  factor,  not  choosing  to  confess  that  he  was  as  com- 
pletely ignorant  of  Macdonald's  intentions  as  Ellen  Macleod 
herself. 

'  Well,  it  would  be  a  sin  and  a  shame ;  but  mark  me,  Angus 
M'Bean,  it  would  not  greatly  surprise  me.  Fergus  is  in  a 
terrible  way  about  this  talk  of  emigration  in  the  Fauld.' 

'  I  knew  he  would  be.  He's  got  a  soft  heart,  and  they've 
got  round  him  completely.  Some  day  I  expect  Mr.  Fergus 
will  thank  me  for  ridding  Dalmore  of  these  discontented  cottars. 
They  are  a  great  toil  and  anxiety.  I'm  getting  my  blessings  in 
Achnafauld  just  now,  Mrs.  Macleod.  They're  all  on  my  tap, 
and  they've  even  threatened  me  with  bullets,  to  say  nothing  of 
Ewan  M'Fadyen's  lang-nebbit  maledictions,  which  are  fear- 
some to  listen  to.  I  hope  the  emigration  craze  will  only  hold. 
There's  one  nest  I  would  like  cleaned  out  among  the  rest,  and 
that's  the  Menzies's.  That  Malcolm's  no*  canny.  Were  he  in 
the  town,  he  would  be  in  an  asylum.' 

'  Fergus  is  especially  fond  of  the  Menzies's,'  said  Ellen  Mac- 


156  SHEILA. 

leod,  with  a  slight  smile.  '  I  do  not  comprehend  the  boy.  He 
has  not  a  soul  above  the  affairs  of  the  common  folk.  He 
would  rather  sit  an  hour  with  the  stocking -weaver  than  be 
Laird  of  Dalmore.' 

'He's  but  a  lad.  Edinburgh  will  bring  him  to  his  level,' 
said  the  factor  knowingly.  'Take  my  word  for  it,  Mrs.  Mac- 
leod,  he'll  meet  the  gentry  in  Edinburgh,  and  learn  to  be  proud 
of  his  mother's  folks.  I'm  no'  feared  for  Mr.  Fergus  being  able 
to  uphold  his  position  in  Dalmore ;  and  he'll  change  his  ideas, 
too,  about  the  Fauld  folk.' 

'  He  is  their  enthusiastic  advocate  in  the  meantime,  at  any 
rate.  None  of  the  lawyers  have  ever  been  at  Dalmore  that  you 
know  of,  then  ?  ' 

'No;  and  Maggie  Macintosh,  that  was  with  my  wife  at 
Auchloy,  and  is  kitchen-maid  at  Dalmore,  brings  all  the  news. 
I'll  let  ye  ken,  ma'am,  whatever  happens.  I'm  yours  and  Mr. 
Fergus's  humble  servant,  and  I  hope  to  see  ye  yet  where  ye 
should  be,  and  should  aye  hae  been,'  said  the  factor,  in  his 
blandest  mood. 

Strange  that  Ellen  Macleod  should  believe  in  the  sincerity  of 
such  a  man.  In  the  wide  world,  Angus  M'Bean  of  Auchloy 
would  serve  but  one  master,  and  that  was — Self. 


CHAPTER  XVIL 


CHUMS. 

A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 

And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts. 

LONGFELLOW. 

ERGUS  had  rebelled  against  sharing  lodgings  in 
Edinburgh  with  Angus  M'Bean,  and  so  the  open- 
ing of  the  University  session  found  him  domiciled 
alone  in  a  small  but  comfortable  room  in  the  top  flat 
of  a  house  in  Montagu  Street.  It  seemed  strange  to  the  boy  at 
first  to  be  confined  to  so  small  a  space,  but  from  his  window  he 
could  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  corner  of  Arthur's  Seat,  and  the 
grim  outline  of  Salisbury  Crags,  and  that  view  was  the  greatest 
comfort  the  Highland  boy  li;id  in  town.  It  reminded  him  of 
home.  It  must  not  be  supposed,  however,  that  he  was  at  all 
miserable  in  Edinburgh.  At  first  the  change  and  its  constant 
bustle  were  delightful  to  him ;  there  was  so  much  to  see  in  spare 
hours  and  on  holidays,  that  he  never  wearied,  even  for  home. 

He  speedily  made  acquaintance  among  the  students,  and 
became  very  friendly  with  a  big,  good-natured  lad,  with  a  smile 
and  a  kindly  eye  which  seemed  familiar  to  Fergus.  When  he 
learned  his  name  he  knew  at  once  where  he  had  seen  these  eyes 
before.  The  lad  was  Alastair  Murray,  from  Murrayshaugh ; 
and  he  was  his  mother's  son.  Young  Murray  was  boarded  with 
a  very  select  family  in  Great  King  Street,  and  lived  in  a  very 


158  SHEILA. 

different  style  from  Fergus ;  but  that  did  not  prevent  the  two 
from  becoming  inseparable  chums.  Alastair  was  supposed  to 
be  studying  for  his  degree  likewise,  but  was  too  idle  and  easy- 
minded  to  oppress  himself  much  with  books.  The  lads  sat  side 
by  side  in  the  Humanity  class-room,  but  Alastair  took  in  very 
little  of  the  learned  professor's  lectures.  Fergus,  however,  did 
his  best.  He  was  conscientious  in  everything,  and,  as  he  had 
been  sent  to  college  to  learn,  he  did  learn.  But  on  half- 
holidays  and  Saturdays,  Alastair  and  he  took  long  walks  to- 
gether all  over  Edinburgh  and  its  beautiful  environs,  and  were 
as  chummy  and  as  devoted  to  each  other  as  boys  of  that  age 
can  be.  Alastair  wrote  home  when  the  spirit  moved  him,  and 
his  letters  were  filled  with  Fergus  Macleod ;  and  when  Lady 
Ailsa  read  them,  she  smiled  a  bit  quiet  smile  to  herself,  and 
wrote  back  to  her  boy  to  keep  up  his  friendship  with  Fergus, 
and  be  as  kind  to  him  as  possible.  In  her  own  mind  she  knew 
that  old  Time,  the  stern  and  just,  would  heap  revenges  on  Ellen 
Macleod's  head,  and  that  the  bairns  among  them,  if  let  alone, 
would  heal  the  old  sores.  Fergus  had  no  sweet  mother  to 
whom  he  could  pour  out  his  boyish  confidences.  He  wrote 
home  dutifully  every  Saturday  morning,  faithfully  rehearsing 
his  week's  work ;  and,  though  he  might  mention  that  he  was 
going  for  a  stroll  to  Craigmillar  Castle,  or  a  ramble  through  the 
Pentlands,  he  never  by  any  chance  wrote  down  the  name  of 
Alastair  Murray.  He  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  his  mother 
would  not  approve  of  his  intimacy  with  Lady  Ailsa's  son ;  and 
yet  when  Alastair  was  such  a  jolly  fellow,  to  whom  his  boyish 
affection  went  out,  how  could  he  cast  him  off?  So  the  winter 
went  by,  and  cemented  yet  more  closely  the  tie  of  friendship 
between  them.  Each  was  utterly  devoted  to  the  other,  and 
each  believed  the  other  the  best  fellow  in  the  world.  At 
Christmas,  Alastair  Murray  went  home,  but  Fergus  had  to 
remain  over  the  holidays  in  town.  The  journey  was  long  and 
expensive ;  besides,  the  world  about  Amulree  in  the  latter  end 
of  December  was  shut  in  by  drifts,  which  were  no  mean  rivals 
to  the  hills  themselves.  The  hawthorn  bloom  had  been  thick 
and  white  in  Strathbraan  all  through  the  summer,  and  the  haws 
ruddy  on  the  boughs  later  on,  and  they  had  not  belied  their 


CHUMS.  159 

promise  of  a  snowy  Christmas.  So  Fergus  wandered  about  the 
town  in  the  holidays,  thinking  how  ugly  it  looked,  with  iu 
tiampled  snow  and  smoky,  murky  atmosphere,  and  thought  of 
the  wild  beauties  of  Amulree,  of  the  tender  outlines  of  the 
wreaths  in  the  roads,  and  even  pictured  the  wild  winds  swirling 
the  drifts  in  Glen  Lochan  like  an  unseen  hand  stirring  a  witch's 
cauldron.  The  wee  glen  at  the  head  of  Loch  Fraochie  was  a 
fearsome  place  in  a  snowstorm,  Fergus  knew.  He  went  often 
to  the  Queen's  Park  to  slide  on  the  lochs,  and  thought  them 
mean  in  comparison  with  his  own  Fraochie,  which  all  the  winter 
through  was  a  vast  curling-ground.  He  was  glad  when  the 
recess  was  over,  and  the  students  came  back  to  town.  Alastair 
was  not  at  college  or  the  first  day,  but  next  morning,  when 
Fergus  was  walking  briskly  up  and  down  the  quadrangle  at 
lunch-time,  he  felt  Alastair's  big  hand  slap  him  on  the 
back. 

1  Hulloa,  Fergie  I ' 

'  Hulloa !  got  back,  Alastair  ?  '  said  Fergus  heartily.  Then 
they  linked  arms,  and  went  round  and  round  the  quadrangle  to 
exchange  news.  Of  course  Alastair  had  the  most  to  give,  for 
Lady  Ailsa  always  made  Christmas  a  happy  time  for  her  boys, 
and  grudged  them  no  enjoyment. 

1  Oh,  I  say,  Fergie,  there's  an  awful  din  going  on  up  at  your 
place,'  said  Alastair  suddenly.  '  The  folks  have  all  left  their 
farms,  and  they're  going  off  to  America.  I  heard  them  talking 
about  it  at  home.* 

Instantly  Fergus  was  breathlessly  interested.  Though  his 
mother  wrote  to  him  regularly,  she  never  mentioned  anything 
about  the  Fauld  folks,  nor  any  matters  connected  with  the 
estate. 

'  Are  they  going  soon  ?  Tell  me  all  about  it,  Alastair, 
quick  1 ' 

1  Oh,  I  don't  know  much.  But  surely  your  uncle  has  a 
mean  sneak  of  a  fellow  for  a  factor.  Hasn't  he  put  them  out  ? 
I  thought  my  mother  said  that.' 

'  He's  helped  anyway.  Yes,  he's  a  mean  sneak,'  said  Fergus 
gloomily,  but  with  an  angry  flash  of  his  eye.  'But  they  can't 
go  over  the  Atlantic  just  now.' 


160  SHEILA. 

'  Why  not  ?  I  think  they  are  going  just  now ;  at  least, 
they're  out  of  their  places.' 

'Well,  but  it  is  Upper  Canada  they  are  going  to,  and  the 
ships  can't  get  up  the  St.  Lawrence  for  the  ice,'  said  Fergus. 
'  If  they  are  out  of  their  farms,  where  are  they  living? ' 

'  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Doesn't  your  mother  tell  you  all  that 
sort  of  things  when  she  writes?  Mine  does.' 

'  She  didn't  tell  me  anything  about  this.  Oh,  Alastair,  1 
wish  I  could  get  home ! '  said  Fergus,  in  a  tone  of  such  painful 
inquiry  that  Alastair  looked  at  him  iu  amazement. 

« What  for,  Fergie  ? ' 

'To  see  what's  going  on.  It'll  be  April  before  I'm  home, 
•and  if  they're  all  away  I  don't  know  what  I'll  do.' 

'  But  how  does  it  matter  to  you  ?  You  aren't  the  Laird,'  said 
Alastair,  in  rather  a  perplexed  voice. 

'  No ;  but  I  like  all  these  folks.  There's  Donald  M'Glashan, 
and  old  Dugald,  and  Eob  Macnaughton,  only  I  don't  think 
he'll  be  going.  I  wish  I  could  see  them,  if  only  to  say 
good-bye.' 

'Oh,  well,  perhaps  they  won't  be  going  till  the  spring, 
for  the  ice,'  said  Alastair,  who  was  not  very  clear  on  that 
point.  'Likely  they'll  all  be  there  when  you  get  back.  The 
session  ends  on  the  28th  of  March,  and  jolly  glad  I'll  be  when 
it  comes.  It's  not  much  more  than  two  months,  Fergie,  so 
cheer  up.' 

But  Fergus  was  very  down-hearted  all  day,  and  whenever  he 
got  home  to  his  lodgings,  he  wrote  a  hasty  letter  to  his  mother, 
asking  for  all  the  news  about  the  Fauld.  In  his  absorbing 
interest  about  the  cottars,  he  forgot  his  usual  reticence  regard- 
ing Alastair,  and  just  wrote  down  that  he  had  brought  the 
news  back  from  Murrayshaugh.  Ellen  Macleod  had  herself  to 
blame  for  the  way  in  which  Fergus  withheld  his  confidence  from 
her.  When  had  she  encouraged  it,  or  shown  herself  in  the  light 
of  a  sympathetic,  interested  friend  to  her  boy  ?  She  had  frozen 
the  mainsprings  of  his  fresh,  warm,  impulsive  young  heart  long 
ago,  and  could  scarcely  resent  its  lukewarmness  now.  Fergus 
knew  the  name  of  Murray  was  distasteful  to  her,  and,  grown 
worldly  wise  even  in  his  young  boyhood,  refrained  from  inflict- 


CHUMS.  161 

ing  it  upon  her.  At  the  expiry  of  a  week  his  mother's  usual 
letter  arrived,  and,  though  she  signified  her  receipt  of  his  extra 
epistle,  she  merely  said  that  she  did  not  concern  herself  with 
affairs  which  were  not  her  own.  She  had  noted  the  name  of 
Alastair  Murray,  but  did  not  take  notice  of  it  in  her  reply. 
In  the  heat  of  his  disappointment  and  eager  desire  to  know 
really  what  was  going  on  in  Achnafauld,  Fergus  sat  down 
and  indited  a  hasty,  boyish  screed  to  Rob  Macnaughton,  the 
stocking-weaver,  asking  him  to  send  him  a  long  letter  telling 
all  that  had  transpired  in  the  Fauld  since  he  left  the  Glen. 
That  letter  Rob  Macnaughton  treasured  among  his  most 
precious  documents  till  his  dying  day. 

In  a  day  or  two  there  came  back  an  answer,  written  in  rather 
a  cramped,  unsteady  hand,  no  less  a  personage  than  Ewan 
M'Fadyen,  the  precentor,  having  taken  it  upon  himself  to  reply 
on  behalf  of  Rob,  who  was  confined  to  his  bed  with  rheumatism, 
and  could  not  hold  the  pen  in  his  stiff  fingers.  Rheumatism 
was  a  common  complaint  in  Achnafauld  in  the  winter  time— 
the  moist  atmosphere,  and  the  low-lying,  damp  situation  of  the 
houses,  accounted  for  it.  This  letter  of  Ewan's,  written  in  his 
most  grandiloquent  style,  is  quite  worthy  of  publication.  Fergus 
kept  it  long  in  his  possession  as  a  curiosity,  and  I  am  not  sure 
but  that  it  is  still  extant  among  the  papers  in  the  library  at 
Dalmore. 

ACHNAFAULD, 
GLENQUAICH,  AMULREE,  BT  DUNKELD, 

The  16th  day  of  January, 
Eighteen  hundred  and  forty-eight,  Anno  Domini. 

To  Mr.  Fergus  Macleod,  at  the  College,  in  Edinburgh. 

RESPECTED  SIR, — 

I  am  organized  by  my  disabled  friend,  Mr.  Robert  Mac- 
naughton, to  indite  a  suitable  and  permanent  reply  to  your 
honoured  communication  anent  the  agitation  which  has  shooken 
this  hamlet,  nay,  this  entire  glen,  from  east  or  west,  to  its  solid 
foundation.  This  I  will  make  it  my  endeavour  to  do  to  the  utmost 
of  my  tolerable  ability,  and  do  but  prefer  a  humble  request  that  a 
student  of  so  great  and  philosophical  a  college  will  be  pleased  to 
overlook  and  pass  by  any  slight  deviation  from  the  straight  equili 
brium  of  grammatical  correctness, 
li 


1 6a  SHEILA.  , 

Rob  Macnaughton,  being  in  haste,  requests  me  not  to  dissipate 
your  attention  with  ray  fine  language,  which,  I  confess,  I  am  a 
master  of,  but  I  take  it  upon  me  to  venture  the  supposition  that 
even  in  my  finest  style  I  shall  hardly  be  equal  to  the  occasion.  I 
will  endeavour,  however,  in  acquiescence  with  Rob's  desire,  to 
inform  you  briefly  what  the  facts  of  this  interesting  case  are,  as 
follows,  viz.  : — That  the  following  responsible  heads  of  households — 
vk.: — 

James  Stewart,  formerly  of  Turrich ; 

Alexander  Maclean,  cottar  in  Achnaf auld ; 

Thomas  Macnaughton,  do.  do. 

Rory  Maclean,  do.  do. 

William  Crerar,  do.  do. 

Donald  Macalpine,        do.  and  blacksmith ; 

and  the  undersigned,  viz.  Ewan  M'Fadyen,  cottar,  and  also 
precentor,  viz.  leader  of  the  praise  in  the  kirk  of  Ainulree,  have 
resolved  and  determined  in  a  solemn  league  and  covenant,  on  account 
of  the  oppression  and  incidence  of  that  upstart  and  contemptible 
truckler,  Angus  M'Bean  in  Auchloy,  to  turn  our  respective  backs 
upon  the  land  of  our  birth  and  breeding,  and  cross  the  seas  to  a  new 
and  unexplored  region  which  knows  not  Joseph,  and  this  our  families 
have  agreed  to,  and  it  is  our  fixed  intention  to  shake  the  dust  from 
off  our  feet  in  the  spring-time, — that  vernate  season  when  all  nature 
rejoices,  except  ourselves, — and  with  every  symptom  of  respect  to 
Mr.  Fergus  Macleod, 

His  humble  servant, 

EWAN  M'FADYEN. 

The  close  of  Ewan's  epistle  bore  unmistakeable  traces  of 
haste.  Rob,  indeed,  had  lost  patience  with  his  scribe's 
verbosity,  and  had  thrown  a  book  at  his  head.  But,  in  spite 
of  the  long  words  and  fine-sounding  phrases,  the  meaning  was 
perfectly  clear.  It  was  indeed  clear  that  Angus  M'Bean  had 
succeeded  in  completely  souring  the  small  tenants  in  Dalmore. 
And  they,  foreseeing  no  prospect  of  any  betterment  in  their 
situation,  had  wisely  resolved  to  gird  up  their  loins  while  they 
had  yet  a  little  left  in  their  wallets,  and  seek  a  home  in  that 
distant  land  of  which  such  good  reports  had  reached  their 
Now  that  he  knew  the  worst,  Fergus  felt  more  contented, 
although  wearying  to  get  home  to  hear  fuller  particulars. 

He  had  seen  Puddin'  M'Bean  several  times    in  Edinburgh, 
hut  did  not  consort  at  all  with  him.     Alastair  Murray,  who,  in 


CHUMS.  163 

spite  of  his  good-nature,  had  a  pride  of  his  own,  declined  to 
stand  on  any  footing  with  the  factor's  son  at  Auchloy.  That 
red-haired  fellow  from  Glenquaich  did  not  find  favour  in  the 
eyes  of  handsome,  high-born  Alastair  Murray. 

The  brief  spring  session  passed  at  length,  and  on  the  28th  of 
March  Fergus  Macleod  returned  home.  Alastair,  Angus 
M'Bean,  and  he  travelled  by  the  same  train.  The  Highland 
line  was  being  formed,  and  had  now  reached  Ballinluig,  so 
that  the  lads  got  home  all  the  way  to  Dunkeld  by  train. 
The  factor's  smart  dogcart  was  in  waiting  for  young  Angus, 
the  factor  himself  driving. 

'Hulloa!  how  are  you,  Mr.  Fergus?  Jump  up,'  said  the 
factor  familiarly,  when  Fergus  came  off  the  platform.  But, 
to  his  amazement,  Fergus  only  gave  him  a  haughty  little 
nod. 

'No,  thank  you,  I'm  going  to  walk.  Here's  your  trap, 
Alastair,'  he  said,  turning  away  from  the  M'Beans  and  speak- 
ing to  his  friend. 

'  But,  Mr.  Fergus,  Mrs.  Macleod  said  I  was  to  bring  you  up,' 
said  the  factor.  *  Come.' 

'No,  thank  you,'  repeated  Fergus.  'Tell  my  mother  I'm 
walking,  and  that  I'll  be  up  before  it's  dark.' 

'  All  right,'  said  Angus  M'Bean,  trying  to  speak  pleasantly, 
though  he  was  very  angry.  'He's  trying  to  show  off  before 
young  Murrayshaugh,  but  I'll  take  it  out  of  him,'  he  added  to 
his  son.  '  In  with  you,  Angus,  and  let's  off.' 

'  You  can't  walk  all  that  distance,  Fergie,'  said  Alastair,  in 
concern.  'Come  on  home  with  me,  and  you'll  get  Dick's 
pony.' 

'O  no,  Alastair.  Ten  miles!  I'll  walk  that  in  two  hours 
and  a  half  easily,'  cried  Fergus  cheerily.  '  Good-bye ;  I  hope 
we'll  see  each  other  in  the  holidays.' 

'  See  each  other !  of  course.  If  the  weather  keeps  like  this, 
there'll  be  some  rare  fishing  in  the  Logie.  Of  course  you'll 
come  over  for  a  few  days.  My  mother  will  settle  all  that.' 

So  they  shook  hands  and  parted,  Alastair  to  drive  rapidly 
home  to  the  hearty,  loving  welcome  of  Murrayshaugh,  and 
Fergus  to  trudge  manfully  up  the  brae  and  through  Strath- 


1 64  SHEILA. 

braan  to  Anmlree.  The  Laird's  nephew  walked  afoot,  carrying 
his  bag,  while  the  L;  ird's  factor  covered  the  miles  with  the 
fleet  thoroughbred  for  which  the  spoil  of  the  cottars  had  paid. 
The  brief  soreness  Fergus  had  felt  at  the  station  soon  wore 
off,  and  he  began  to  take  interest  in  what  was  about  him. 
Never  had  the  green  and  lovely  Athole  woods  seemed  so  pass- 
ing fair  as  they  did  that  April  day,  to  the  country  boy  whose 
eyes  had  grown  weary  of  the  town.  He  turned  back  again 
and  again  to  look  at  the  rugged  face  of  Craigybarns,  which  was 
clothed  with  the  rich  mosaic  of  her  spring- tide  hues.  The 
green  banks  of  the  noble  Tay  were  like  finest  emerald  velvet, 
and  the  river  itself  flashed  and  rippled  in  the  sunlight,  till  its 
beauty  filled  the  boy's  whole  soul.  He  was  neither  an  artist 
nor  a  poet,  but  he  felt  it  all  in  his  soul,  and  loved  the  land  of 
his  birth  better  than  anything  in  the  world.  He  had  to  stop 
at  one  part  of  the  road  and  look  away  up  the  glen  past  Dalguise 
and  Dowally  to  the  green  braes  of  Tullymet  and  the  purple  hills 
in  the  distance,  a  picture  whose  marrow  he  had  never  seen. 
He  saw  the  trouts  leaping  in  the  gleaming  pools  in  the  Braan, 
which  were  shaded  by  the  drooping  birch  trees  and  the  golden 
tassels  of  the  larches,  and  his  young  heart  leaped  too,  for  the 
world  was  a  lovely  world,  and  life  was  all  before  him.  So  on 
he  trudged  past  Trochrie,  and  on  to  Drumour  and  Tomnagrew, 
where  the  landscape  grew  more  bare  and  treeless,  though  not 
less  beautiful  in  the  eyes  of  Fergus  Macleod.  When  he  got  up 
to  the  crest  of  the  brae  by  Dalreoch,  he  saw  Crom  Creagh,  and 
the  sunset  shafts  of  golden  light  falling  athwart  the  windows  of 
Dalmore.  Then  he  dashed  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  for  they 
were  wet.  God  guide  the  boy  1  he  had  an  earnest  heart,  and 
already  he  had  been  sorely  tried.  Just  then  he  met  Tom 
Macnaughton,  the  blind  piper,  dressed  in  his  kilt,  away  to 
play  at  a  marriage  in  Ballinreich,  and  of  course  he  had  to 
stand  and  crack  a  bit  with  him,  for  the  piper  knew  the  lad's 
foot  before  he  came  up.  It  was  about  eight  o'clock,  and,  the 
sun  being  down,  a  soft  golden  haze  enveloped  the  whole  glen, 
when  Fergus  Macleod  laid  his  hand  on  the  gate  of  Shonnen. 
He  felt  no  thrill  of  delight  as  he  did  so,  for  he  had  no  love  for 
the  place,  nor  had  it  ever  possessed  for  him  any  of  the  attrac- 


CHUMS. 


165 


tions  of  home.  His  mother  was  watching  for  him,  and  came 
out  to  the  door  to  meet  him  with  but  a  chilly  welcome  on  her 
lips. 

'Ye  are  a  fool,  Fergus,  to  walk  the  road  ye  might  have 
ridden.  Whether  is  it  pride  or  thrawnness  that  makes  you  so 
sorry  civil  to  Mr.  M'Bean  of  Auchloy  ?' 


CHAPTER  XVIIL 


HOME   AGAIN. 


The  short  bat  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 


GRAY. 


dawn 


3LLEN  MACLEOD  was  glad  to  see  her  son,  however, 
in  spite  of  her  scanty  welcome,  and  when  he  sat 
down  to  tea  her  eye  viewed  him  with  keen  pride. 
He  had  grown  a  manly  fellow,  and  there  was  the 
manhood  in  his  look  and  manner.  Fergus  was  no 
longer  a  boy,  to  be  chidden  and  ordered  even  by  his  mother. 
So  she  alluded  no  more  to  his  refusal  to  ride  up  in  Angus 
M'Bean's  trap. 

'  Mother,  what's  all  this  about  the  Fauld  ? '  he  asked,  in  his 
quick  way.  '  Are  they  really  going  away  ?  I  can't  believe  it.' 
4  Oh,  it's  true  enough.  They  go  to  Glasgow,  I'm  told,  the 
day  after  to-morrow.  Silly  fools,  they  don't  know  when  they 
are  well  off.  So  Lady  Ailsa's  son  brought  you  the  news.  Are 
you  intimate  with  him,  Fergus  ? ' 

*  O  yes ;  Alastair  is  a  splendid  fellow,  mother  I '  said  Fergus 
enthusiastically.  '  We  are  the  best  of  chums,  and  spend  our 
Saturdays  together,  always.' 

1  It  seems  as  if  you  purposely  made  friendships  and  did 
things  to  vex  me,  Fergus.  The  Murrays  are  not  your  true 
friends.  Have  you  forgotten  that  this  lad  and  Sheila  Murray 
are  full  cousins  ?  ' 


HOME  AGAIN.  167 

'No;  but,  mother,  I  can't  make  any  difference.  I  can't 
always  mind  that  people  are  not  my  friends,  as  you  say.  I  like 
Alastair,  and  always  will.  And  as  for  being  Sheila's  cousin,'  he 
added,  with  a  light  laugh,  '  we  agree  perfectly  about  her. 
Sheila  is  everybody's  chum  at  Murrayshaugh ;  but  she's  mine 
too,  when  she's  in  Amulree.' 

These  words  were  bitter  as  gall  to  Ellen  Macleod,  but  she 
passed  them  by  in  silence. 

1  Mother,  I'm  going  to  run  along  to  the  Fauld ;  I  must  see 
the  old  folks.  I  won't  be  more  than  an  hour,  and  it  is  quite 
light  yet.' 

'  All  right !  I  would  not  keep  you  from  your  friends,'  she  said, 
with  a  slight  touch  of  scorn.  ' 1  heard  of  the  letter  you  wrote 
to  the  stocking- weaver.  It  was  not  wisely  done,  Fergus.' 

'Why?  Oh,  mother,  I  had  such  a  letter  from  Ewan 
M'Fadyen  ! '  cried  Fergus  mirthfully.  '  It  is  in  my  bag.  We 
can  see  it  after.  It  is  full  of  the  longest  words  you  ever  saw  or 
heard  of.  Rob's  cripple  leg  was  bothering  him,  and  his  rheu- 
matic arm,  so  that  he  could  not  write.' 

'I  am  not  much  interested  in  these  ungrateful  people,'  was 
the  cold  reply.  '  I  want  to  hear  about  your  college  life. 
Angus  M'Bean  has  done  very  well,  his  father  tells  me.' 

'  I  know  nothing  about  him,  except  that  he  went  with  fellows 
who  could  not  do  him  any  good,'  said  Fergus  coolly.  '  Of 
course  he  did  not  belong  to  our  set.  Puddin'  soon  found  his 
level  in  Edinburgh  College,  mother.  A  cad  is  soon  spotted 
there.' 

'  What  do  you  mean  by  these  strange,  ill-bred  words,  Fergus  ?  ' 

'I  beg  your  pardon,  mother.  One  can't  help  picking  up  a 
little  slang.  I  meant  to  say  that  an  ungentlemanly  fellow  is 
soon  marked ;  and,  in  spite  of  his  fine  clothes  and  airs,  Puddin' 
will  never  be  anything  but  just  Puddin'  M'Bean.  How  are 
Bessie  and  Kate?  Do  you  ever  see  them?  ' 

1  Occasionally.  They  are  well-bred  girls.  Angus  M'Bean 
has  credit  by  his  family.' 

'I  am  glad  to  hear  it,'  said  Fergus  carelessly.  'Oh,  mother, 
how  bonnie  Amulree  is  looking  just  now,  with  all  the  green 
leaves  on  the  manse  trees  I ' 


1 68  SHEILA. 

Fergus  said  the  manse  trees,  but  he  was  thinking  and  speaking 
of  the  woods  about  Dalmore. 

'  Uncle  Gr.iham  is  no  worse,  is  he  ?  ' 

'Not  that  I  know  of,'  answered  his  mother.  *Yoti  won't 
stay  late,  then,  if  you  are  going.  Remember,  you  owe  a  duty 
to  me.  You  have  been  away  from  me  more  than  six  months.' 

'And  jolly  glad  to  get  home,  I  can  tell  you,'  said  Fergus 
cheerily.  '  No,  I  won't  be  long.  I  only  want  to  ask  for  Rob, 
and  shake  hands  with  the  smith,  and  have  a  peep  at  Katie 
Menzies.' 

So  saying,  Fergus  caught  up  his  cap  and  ran  out  whistling, 
Ids  spirits  overflowing  with  the  joy  of  being  once  more  at  home. 
He  missed  Colin  at  his  heels.  That  faithful  friend  was  now 
dead,  and  there  was  no  dog  at  Dalmore  but  poor  Tory,  who  in 
his  old  age  had  grown  very  dyspeptic,  and  consequently  was 
very  lazy  and  cross. 

Ellen  Macleod  went  out.  to  the  door  and  watched  the  lad's 
fine  figure  as  he  marched  along  the  stony  road  towards  Kinloch 
— watched  him  with  all  a  mother's  pride.  She  loved  him  more 
in  his  independent  young  manhood  than  she  had  loved  him  in 
his  childhood.  His  spirit  and  his  pride  matched  her  own, 
though  it  was  of  a  mellower  and  more  beautiful  type.  Fergus 
never  looked  back,  but  strode  on,  with  many  a  glance,  it  is  true, 
over  the  moors  to  Dalmore,  about  which  the  grey  night-shadows 
were  gathering  softly,  as  if  in  pity  for  the  old  house  which  was 
now  so  desolate  a  home.  The  loch  was  lying  darkly  in  the 
shadow  too,  for  the  sunset  glow  never  touched  it ;  but  it  was 
wholly  beautiful  in  the  eyes  of  the  lad,  as  he  stood  a  moment 
on  the  old  bridge  and  watched  it  and  the  river  which  flowed  so 
deep  and  silent  and  swiftly  below.  He  could  almost  fancy  he 
saw  the  big  hungry  pike  darting  to  and  fro  in  the  gleaming 
depths  below  the  bridge ;  for  by  some  strange  means  pike  had 
come  to  Loch  Fraochie,  and  helped  to  devour  the  trout  which 
used  to  be  netted  for  the  folks  who  stayed  over  the  protracted 
communion  services  at  Amulree.  Over  the  bridge  and  up 
through  the  grassy  path  went  Fergus,  and  came  upon  Malcolm 
Menzies,  working,  though  it  was  nearly  dark,  on  the  potato 
land,  preparing  it  for  the  seed. 


HOME  AGAIN.  169 

*  Hullo,  Malky  I  here  I  am  again.     No  holidays   for  you,  my 
boy,  eh  ?     Do  you  ever  give  yourself  a  rest  ?  ' 

*  I  dinna  need  it.     I'm  best  workin'  hard.     It  keeps  me  doon, 
as  Katie  says,'  said  Malcolm,  as  he  stood  up,  his  face  all  aglow 
with  pleasure  at  sight  of  his  old  companion  and  defender. 

'  You  are  looking  much  bigger  and  stronger,  Malky.  How's 
Katie?' 

« Katie's  fine.' 

*  And  Aunt  Jenny,  eh  ? ' 

1  Fine  too,  though  she  canna  rise  noo,  nor  help  hersel*.' 

'  So  you  are  to  lose  a  lot  of  your  neighbours,  Malky  ?    The 

Fauld  will  be  dull  enough  without  them  all.' 

'  Ay  ;  but  I'm  gled  Rob  Macnaughton  has  a  cripple  leg.' 

'  To  keep  him  at  home,'  laughed  Fergus.     '  You  and  Katie 

are  not  going  either.     I'm  very  glad.' 

'I   wad   gang   if  it   werena   for   Katie,   Mr.    Fergus,'   said 

Malcolm,  with  a  curious  gleam  in  his  eye.     4  There's  whiles  I 

canna  bide    here   hardly.     The  factor's   aye    meddlin'  wi'  me. 

He  says   I  canna  ferm  the  land,  but  I  see  weel  eneuch  he's 

wan  tin'  us  oot  o'  this  Fauld  an'  a'.' 

'  Never  mind  him,  Malky ;  he  can't  put  you  out  unless  you 

are  willing  to  go.' 

*  I  dinna  ken.     He  says  he'll  rise  the  rent,  an'  it's  ower  dear 
already.     We've  to  pay  for  horse  wark  too,  ye  ken,  an'  that 
disna  pay.     Is  Puddin'  hame  frae  the  college  too  ?  ' 

'  Yes ;  but  you  mustn't  call  him  Puddin'  now,  Malcolm,  he  is 
such  a  fine  young  gentleman.  He  wears  a  gold  finger  ring  and 
has  a  silver-topped  cane,'  said  Fergus,  with  a  laugh. 

'  I  hope  he'll  bide  oot  o'  my  road,'  said  Malcolm,  in  a  low 
voice.  '  Ye'll  be  gaun  to  stop  at  hame  for  a  while  now  ?  ' 

1  For  a  month,  Malky  ;  but  I  must  away  over  to  Rob's.  I  see 
a  lot  o'  them  at  the  smith's.  Is  Donald  really  going  away  ? ' 

'  Ay ;  and  there's  a  man  frae  Findowie  comin'  up  to  the 
smiddy.' 

*  Malky,  if  the  Laird  had  been  quite  well,  these  things  would 
not  be,'  said  Fergus  soberly.     '  I  believe  the  factor  does  things 
in  my  uncle's  name  which  he  never  sanctioned.' 

4  We   ken    that,   but    we'll  be  waur  some  day,'  said   Malky 


lye  SHEILA. 

quietly,  as  he  went  back  to  his  work.  Fergus  crossed  over  the 
burn  and  passed  by  Jenny's  door,  meaning  to  look  in  and  see 
Katie  last  of  all.  As  he  neared  the  smiddy  door,  he  heard  a 
loud  burst  of  laughter,  which  did  not  seem  to  indicate  much 
heaviness  of  heart.  It  was  Ewaii  M'Fadyen,  holding  forth  as 
usual  in  his  solemn,  bombastic  style,  to  the  great  amusement  of 
the  others.  Mary  Macalpine,  the  smith's  wife,  looking  out  of 
the  door,  caught  sight  of  Fergus. 

'  Here's  the  young  Laird,'  she  cried,  for  by  that  title  was  the 
laddie  now  known  in  the  Fauld. 

'  Well,  how  are  you  all  ?  Mary,  you  are  looking  splendid  1 ' 
cried  Fergus,  stepping  across  the  smiddy  doorstep,  when  he  was 
immediately  surrounded  by  Donald  and  all  the  rest,  eager  to 
shake  him  by  the  hand. 

*  What  were  you  all  laughing  at?'  asked  Fergus,  when  he 
could  get  breath  to  speak.  *  I  thought  you'd  be  all  in  very  bad 
spirits.' 

'Nay,  for  we  are  now  free  from  the  hand  of  the  oppressor,' 
said  Ewan  solemnly ;  but  the  tear  stood  in  Mary  Macalpine's 
eye, 

'Tell  Maister  Fergus  about  Rory  Maclean  bein1  shot  in  the 
Sma'  Glen,  Ewan,'  said  young  Rob  Stewart,  whose  father  had 
been  in  Turrich. 

'Tell  it  yourself,  Eob,  or  you,  Donald,'  said  Fergus  to  the 
smith.  'If  Ewan  begins,  dear  knows  where  he'll  end.  Who 
shot  Rory  ? ' 

'  Ay,  that's  it — wha  shot  Rory  ?  '  replied  the  smith,  his  sides 
shaking  with  laughter.  '  He  was  comin'  thro'  the  sma'  glen  frae 
Crieff  the  ither  nicht  wi'  his  cairt.  He  had  a  bottle  o'  barm  in 
his  oxter,  an'  the  heat  o'  his  arm  garred  the  cork  flee  oot  wi'  a 
lood  report.  It  was  a  dark  nicht,  an'  Rory,  a  muckle  saft  chield, 
as  ye  ken,  Maister  Fergus,  thocht  the  deil  was  efter  him,  or 
that  somebody  had  killed  him  deid  wi'  a  gunshot.  So  he  left 
the  beast  staunin'  i'  the  glen,  an'  gaed  aff  on  his  hale  legs  to  the 
shepherd's  hoose  at  the  Brig  o'  Newton,  an'  gied  them  a  terrible 
fricht.  He  said  he  was  mortally  hurt,  an'  began  to  tell  them 
hoo  his  gear  was  to  be  pairted.  But  the  shepherd,  seein* 
the  barm  rinnin'  ower  his  leg,  says,  "The  bluid's  unco  white, 


HOME  AGAIN.  171 

Rory."  But  it  was  lang  or  Rory  was  convinced  he  wasna 
killed.' 

'That's  a  queer  story,  Donald,'  said  Fergus,  laughing;  'but 
I'm  glad  you've  got  something  to  laugh  at.  It  seems  serious 
enough  to  me  that  you  are  all  going  away  from  the  Fauld.' 

'  We've  got  the  warst  brunt  ower  noo,  lad,'  said  the  smith. 

'  That  we  havena,  smith,'  put  in  Ewan.  '  For  we  have  yet 
to  plough  the  unknown  tracts  of  the  vasty  deep,  and  that'll  be 
very  severe  upon  the  equilibrium,  to  say  nothing  about  our 
stomachs.1 

'  When  do  you  go  away  from  the  Glen  ? '  asked  Fergus, 
paying  no  attention  to  Ewan.  In  serious  moments,  when  he 
wanted  information,  he  was  sometimes  impatient  of  the  pre- 
centor's long-winded  sentences. 

'No'  the  morn,  but  on  Wednesday  mornin',  Maister  Fergus,' 
said  the  smith,  *  we'll  gang  oot  o'  the  Glen — four-an'-twenty 
souls  o*  us,  an'  a  heap  o'  gear.  We're  no  pretendin'  we're  gaun 
oot  beggars,  Maister  Fergus.  We  are  only  gaun  so  that  we'll 
no'  be  beggars.  Could  we  hae  made  a  leevin'  ava,  we  wad  hae 
bidden  i'  the  Glen.  Look  at  Mary  there,  she'll  hae  her  een 
grutten  oot  or  ever  they  see  the  last  o'  Glenquaich.' 

The  smith's  voice  faltered  too,  and  a  silence  fell  upon  the 
little  company.  Strong,  resolute  men  though  they  were,  it  was 
no  light  thing  for  them  to  turn  their  backs  on  their  '  bairn's- 
hame,'  which  is  ever  the  dearest  we  know. 

'  It's  just  awful  to  think  you  are  going  away  from  the  Fauld,' 
said  Fergus  hurriedly.  *  I — I  wish  I  was  the  Laird ;  things 
would  be  different.' 

'  Ay,  we  ken  that ;  but  ye  hae  gotten  a  lesson,  Maister 
Fergus,  an'  if  ye  ever  come  to  your  ain,  ye'll  ken  to  live  an'  let 
live,  an'  no'  treat  folks  as  if  they  were  waur  than  brute  beasts 
without  sense,'  said  the  smith.  'When  ye  see  the  auld  Laird, 
Maister  Fergus,  tell  him  we  gaed  oot  no'  blamin'  him,  for  when 
he  was  in  his  health  things  werena  ill  wi'  us ;  but  tell  him  we 
left  a  curse  on  that  black  imp  at  Auchloy,  an'  that  Dalmore'h 
never  prosper  or  he  gets  the  road.' 

A  shadow  darkened  the  doorway,  a  face  looked  in,  with  a 
mocking  smile.  The  factor  himself,  sneaking  about  to  overhear 


i7«  SHEILA. 

chance  remarks,  had  got  the  listener's  portion,  though  not  for 
the  first  time  in  Achnafauld. 

Fergus  ran  out,  but  the  factor  was  not  to  be  seen.  Then  he 
crossed  the  road,  lifted  the  sneck  of  Rob's  door,  and  went  in. 

'  Are  ye  there,  Rob  ? ' 

'  Ay,  lad,  I'm  here ;  ye  are  welcome  as  the  sun  in  hairst. 
Come  in ;  though  I'm  not  able  to  meet  ye  at  the  door.' 

Fergus  pushed  open  the  door  of  the  little  kitchen,  and  there 
was  Rob  sitting  at  the  fire,  with  the  deal  table  before  him 
covered  with  bits  of  paper,  while  he  had  an  old  copybook  before 
him  and  a  pen  behind  his  ear. 

'  Are  you  making  poetry,  Rob  ?     I'll  disturb  you.' 

'  Never  mind.     Sit  down,  lad  ;  blithe  am  I  to  see  your  face.' 

'  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  too,  Rob,  but  I'm  not  able  to  bear  the 
folks  going  away.  It's  a  terrible,  terrible  shame  I ' 

The  lad  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  and  one  dry,  quick  sob 
broke  from  his  lips.  A  peculiar  kindness  gleamed  in  the  dark 
eye  of  the  stocking-weaver  as  it  rested  on  the  boy's  bent  head. 

'  Ay,  lad,  this  is  but  the  beginnin'  o'  the  desolation  of  which 
I  spoke  to  you  before,'  he  said.  '  There's  nobody  coming  to  fill 
the  places  of  them  that's  going  away,  save  the  smiddy,  so  you 
can  imagine  what  like  the  place  will  be — a  rickle  o'  empty  hooses 
where  the  beasts  o'  the  field  can  shelter,  but  where  human  foot 
doesna  enter.  I'm  no*  tired  o'  life,  Fergus  Macleod,  but  I  have 
no  desire  to  live  to  see  the  complete  doonfa'  o'  Achnafauld.' 

'  What's  to  become  of  the  land,  then,  Rob  ? ' 

'  Ye  need  hardly  ask.  The  big  feck  o't  gangs  in  wi'  Auchloy,' 
said  Rob,  dropping  his  more  poetical  language,  and  speaking 
sharply  to  the  point.  '  Then  Turrich  and  Little  Turrich  are  let 
thegither  wi'  some  o'  the  crofts  at  Kinloch.  But  I  jalouse 
Angus  M'Bean  is  waitin'  or  the  folk  be  safely  awa  or  he  shows 
his  haund.' 

'  It's  a  sad  business.  It  just  makes  me  miserable,'  said 
Fergus,  rising  wearily.  '  I  must  go  home,  for  I  promised  to 
my  mother  not  to  stay  long.  Til  be  along  to-morrow,  Rob. 
Good-bye  just  now.' 

'Mr.  Fergus,'  said  the  stocking- weaver,  'I  dinna  want  to 
push  my  nose  into  the  affairs  o'  my  betters,  but  they  say  the 


HOME  AGAIN.  173 

auld  Laird's  a  deein'  man,  an'  I  Avad  but  advise  ye  to  try  an' 
look  efter  yer  ain.  I  ken  yer  pride,  my  lad,  but  there's  whiles 
we  hae  to  pit  doon  a  firm  foot  on  pride  to  dae  what's  richt. 
Gang  you  up  to  Dalmore,  an'  see  what's  what,  an'  see  there's 
nae  writin'  dune  up  there  that  shouldna  be.  Angus  M'Bean  is 
never  oot  o'  Dalmore,  an'  there'll  maybe  be  mair  come  o'd  than 
you  or  yours  wad  like..' 

'  Everything's  all  wrong,  Rob,'  said  Fergus  hopelessly, 
shaking  his  head  as  he  went  out  by  the  door.  His  face 
brightened  a  little  at  sight  of  Katie,  bonnie  and  winsome  as  of 
yore,  filling  the  water-pitchers  at  the  well,  and  when  he  went 
up  to  her  he  had  even  a  light,  jesting  word  to  greet  her.  Katie 
was  glad  and  pleased  to  see  him.  She  was  grateful  to  him  for 
his  kind  way  with  Malcolm,  who  had  so  few  friends. 

They  stood  but  a  few  minutes,  talking,  of  course,  about  the 
one  absorbing  subject  of  interest  in  the  clachan ;  then,  bidding 
her  good-night,  and  refusing  her  invitation  to  come  in  and  see 
her  aunt,  he  turned  up  the  path  to  the  road  which  skirted  the 
south  side  of  the  loch.  Just  at  the  turn  he  met  young  Angus, 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  puffing  away  at  a  cigar,  with  all 
the  airs  of  a  foolish  boy  who  thought  himself  a  man.  To  be 
sure,  Angus  was  now  in  his  twentieth  year,  and  so,  perhaps, 
was  justified  in  thinking  himself  quite  grown-up.  But  he  had 
no  more  than  a  boy's  sense. 

'  Hulloa,  Fergus,  you  know  where  the  village  belles  are  to  be 
found,'  he  said  offensively.  '  Quite  a  picture,  'pon  my  word. 
Jacob  at  the  well  sort  of  thing.' 

1  Puddin1,  you  are  a  perfect  idiot,'  said  Fergus  hotly.  The 
very  idea  of  such  a  thing  in  connection  with  Katie  Menzies  was 
too  absurd. 

'  Oh,  of  course,  a  fellow  always  is  when  he  tramps  on  another 
fellow's  toes.  I  must  be  down  to  see  the  sweet  Katie ;  a  pretty 
girl,  'pon  honour.  She  is  a  regular  rustic  beauty.  Ah,  that'll 
put  up  your  monkey.  You  have  a  sneaking  after  her,  then  ? 
Ha,  ha!' 

Fergus  was  so  tried,  he  could  almost  have  knocked  the 
stupid  fellow  down,  but,  reflecting  that  it  was  only  Puddin' 
M'Bean,  he  only  gave  his  lips  a  kind  of  haughty  curl,  which 


174  SHEILA. 

somehow  made  Angus  redden.  It  seemed  to  measure  a  distance 
between  them.  Fergus  actually  looked  at  him  as  if  he  were 
beneath  contempt.  Before  he  could  say  anything,  Fergus  had 
passed  on,  and  was  walking  with  a  long,  striding  step  up  the 
road. 

He  was  quite  out  of  sorts.  Everything  seemed  to  conspire 
to  vex  him.  Even  Puddin's  stupid  jeering  had  left  a  rankling 
sting.  He  walked  on  until  he  had  passed  the  swelling  moors 
which  hid  Dalmore,  and  he  could  see  its  lights  gleaming  through 
the  darkening  night.  Thoughts  seemed  to  lie  upon  him  then 
like  a  great  flood — Dalmore  at  the  mercy  of  aliens  and  servants  ; 
even  Sheila,  who  might  have  been  its  guardian  angel,  was  far 
away  in  a  London  school ;  and  in  that  lonely  house  his  uncle 
was  left  to  die,  without  a  loving  hand,  or  the  smile  of  kith  or 
kin  about  his  bed.  That  was  of  far  greater  moment  to  Fergus 
Macleod  than  the  dividing  of  the  estate.  It  seemed,  indeed, 
more  than  he  could  bear. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE   LAST  MEETING. 

Waking  the  memories  that  sleep 
In  the  heart's  silence  long  and  deep. 

ACDONALD  of  Dalmore  was  confined  to  his  bed 
now  for  the  greater  part  of  the  day.  If  he  had  a 
specific  disease,  the  doctors  did  not  name  it,  but, 
though  he  suffered  great  weakness  of  body,  his 
mental  faculties  were  unclouded.  He  knew  everything  that 
was  going  on  on  his  estates,  at  least,  in  so  far  as  Angus  M'Bean 
kept  him  acquainted  with  it.  There  were  some  things,  of 
course,  which  that  wily  individual  kept  to  himself.  The  letter 
which  Fergus  Macleod  had  written  to  Rob  Macnaughton  had 
been  duly  discussed  in  the  library  at  Dalmore.  Ewan 
M'Fadyen,  who  could  keep  nothing  to  himself,  had  taken  care 
to  acquaint  the  factor  with  its  contents,  particularly  with  the 
bit  referring  to  him.  When  it  was  turned  over  again,  with  the 
factor's  own  suitable  embellishments,  it  had  assumed  the  form 
of  a  tirade  against  the  Laird  himself.  So  Macdonald  was  more 
angered  than  usual  against  his  nephew.  That  same  evening  he 
came  home,  and,  after  passing  by  the  smiddy,  where  he  saw 
Fergus,  the  factor  betook  himself  up  the  Corrymuckloch  road 
to  Dalmore.  He  was  such  a  constant  visitor  there,  that  his 
comings  and  goings  were  scarcely  noticed.  He  generally 

entered  without  seeking  admittance,  and  made  his  own  way  to 

ttt 


176  SHEILA. 

the  library,  or  wherever  the  Laird  happened  to  be.  There  was 
nobody  to  challenge  him  but  Tory,  which  he  usually  did  with 
many  a  bark  and  snarl,  for  the  animal  hated  him.  Just  as  the 
factor  was  walking  across  the-  hall  that  evening,  Maggie 
Macintosh,  the  maid,  came  up  from  the  kitchen. 

4  Well,  Maggie,'  he  said  familiarly,  '  anything  new  ?  * 
'  No'  much  ;  but  Colquhoun,  the  writer,  was  here  the  day, 
and  he's   to  be   back  on   Saturday,'   she    said    hurriedly.     '  I 
thocht  ye  wad  like  to  ken.' 

*  Of  course,  of  course.     I'll  see  you  again,  Maggie,'  said  the 
factor  carelessly.     '  The  Laird's  up  the  night  ? ' 

'  No,  sir ;  he's  in  his  bed.' 

'AH right,  I'll  just  go  in;  thank  you,  Maggie,'  he  said,  and 
turned  the  handle  of  the  library  door. 

Macdonald  was  sitting  up  in  his  bed,  a  poor,  thin,  wasted 
shadow,  with  his  grey  hairs  straggling  about  his  brow,  and  his 
keen,  deep-set  eyes  peering  out  with  a  peculiar  brilliancy  which 
struck  even  Angus  M'Bean.  The  Laird  was  certainly  worse. 

'  Good  evening,  Angus ;  sit  down,'  said  the  Laird,  in  his 
usual  quiet,  rather  listless  voice.  'Anything  fresh?  ' 

'  Not  much,  sir.  Mr.  Fergus  Macleod  returned  to  Shonnen 
to-night.' 

'  Ay,  you  told  me  he  was  coming.  Hell  be  in  a  terrible  way 
about  this  exodus  from  the  Fauld.' 

*  Yes ;  he's  down  among  them  holding  a  council  of  Wtir  in  the 
smiddy,'  said  the  factor,  with  a  hard  laugh.     '  I  was  passing  by 
and  overheard  some  of  their  sayings.     I  think  he  was  urging 
them  not  to  hurry,  for  things  would  soon  be  different.' 

'  Ay  ;  what  did  he  mean  ? '  asked  the  Laird. 

'He  meant,  and,  indeed,  said  that  when  he  was  Laird  things 
would  be  different.  The  ungrateful  young  rascal,  that  I 
should  say  it  of  him  ;  but  it  roused  my  anger,  Laird,  after  what 
you  did  for  him  in  the  past.' 

'  So  the  lad,  young  as  he  is,  is  waiting  on  dead  men's  shoes 
already  ? '  said  the  Laird  grimly.  '  Tell  him  from  me,  if  ye  like, 
Angus,  that  a  wise  heuwife  doesna  count  her  chickens  before 
they  are  hatched.' 

'  T   wouldna  like  to   take  it   upon   myself  to  tell  him  that, 


THE  LAST  MEETING.  177 

Laird.  Of  course  he  is  the  direct  heir  ;  but  I  hope  he'll  be  an 
old  man  before  he  writes  himself  Laird  of  Dalmore,'  said  the 
factor  smoothly.  He  was  gasping  to  know  the  wherefore  of 
David  Colquhoun  the  writer's  visit  to  Dalmore,  but  had  not 
the  face  to  ask  the  question  directly  at  the  Laird. 

'  And  they  are  going  away  when  ?  upon  Wednesday  morn'jig, 
is  it,  the  poor  silly  bodies?'  asked  Macdonald.  '  Do  they  think 
they'll  get  land  and  a  living  for  nothi  g  in  another  country  any 
more  than  in  Glenquaich  ?  ' 

*  They  certainly  expect  that,  sir ;  that's  why  they  are 
going.' 

'Well,  well,  let  them  go.  They  are  not  going  empty-handed 
from  the  place,  ye  were  saying  ? ' 

'Not  they.  I  wish  ye  saw  the  kists  upon  kists  of  linen  and 
dear  knows  what  packed  in  the  houses.  They've  strippet  the 
Glen,  Laird,  an'  yet  they're  countin'  themselves  ill-used.' 

'Well,  well,  I  don't  grudge  them  their  gear;  they'll  maybe 
need  it  all,'  said  the  Laird,  and  his  restless  eyes  wandered  about 
the  room  as  if  seeking  for  something.  '  So  the  lad's  come  home  ? 
Bid  him  come  up,  Angus,  when  ye  see  him.  I  wouldna  mind  a 
word  with  him  again,  though  he  does  think  me  a  Tartar.  He's 
a  lad  of  spirit,  Fergus  Macleod.  Ye  canna  deny  that,  Angus?' 

'If  ye  call  it  spirit,'  said  the  factor  rather  sourly,  'he  has 
helped  to  turn  the  folk  against  Dalmore,  that's  certain,  for  I've 
heard  him  with  my  own  ears.' 

'  Well,  well,  he's  honest  at  any  rate.  Ye  had  better  leave 
me,  Angus.  I  am  tired  to-night,  and  cannot  be  troubled  with 
any  more  talk.' 

'  Have  ye  been  thinking  much  about  business  to-day,  sir?' 
the  factor  asked,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet,  loth  to  go  till  he  could 
carry  something  definite  with  him. 

'Not  more  than  usual  Good-night.  Mind  and  tell  Fergus 
to  come  up,'  said  the  Laird,  and  turned  his  face  to  the  wall. 
So  there  was  nothing  for  Angus  M'Bean  but  to  go,  which  he 
did,  reluctantly  enough.  He  would  have  given  a  great  deal  to 
learn  what  was  Mr.  Colquhoun's  errand  to  Dalrnore.  As  he 
"Vent  out,  Mrs.  Cameron,  the  housekeeper,  went  into  the  Laird's 

room.      She  was  constant  and  faithful  in  her  attendance  upon 
12 


178  SHEILA. 

him  for  the  sake  of  her  mistress,  whose  memory  she  worshipped 
still. 

'  Is  that  you,  Cameron  ? ' 

'  Ay,  sir,  it's  me.' 

'What  time  is  it?' 

'  Twenty  minutes  from  nine,  sir.' 

*  It's  too  late  to-night,  then.     The  first  thing  in  the  morn- 
ing, bid  Lachlan  yoke  the  pair  in  the  carriage,  and  go  over  to 
Murrayshaugh  for  Lady  Ailsa.' 

*  Lady  Ailsa,  sir  1     Are  ye  worse  the  night  ? ' 

'Maybe.  I  want  Lady  Ailsa  to  come  and  bide  here, 
Cameron.  She  will  not  refuse  me.  She  was  here  seven  years 
ago  biding  when  August  comes.  Te  can  send  what  message  ye 
like  to  Murrayshaugh,  but  she'll  understand.' 

'  Sir,  would  y*u  like  to  see  Miss  Sheila  ? '  asked  the  house- 
keeper. 

*  Ay,  that's  what  I  want.     Lady  Ailsa  will  arrange  about  it. 
I  want  no  strangers  about  Dalmore,  Cameron,  only  Lady  Ailsa 
and  my  bairn.     And  when  Angus  M'Bean  comes  to  the  door 
again,  see  that  he  doesna  get  in  or  I  give  leave.     He  comes  in 
here  as  if  the  place  were  his  own.' 

The  latter  order  gave  Mrs.  Cameron  the  most  lively  satis- 
faction. She  did  not  at  all  approve  of  Angus  M'Bean.  She 
knew  quite  well  what  all  these  orders  portended ;  indeed,  she 
could  see  that  the  Laird  was  drawing  near  his  end.  She  was 
right  glad  to  think  that  it  was  to  Lady  Ailsa  he  turned  once 
more  in  his  hour  of  need,  for  she  was  a  good  woman  and  a  true 
friend.  Angus  M'Bean  had  left  the  hall  door  open,  and  the 
night  wind  was  blowing  coldly  in.  So  Cameron  crossed  over  to 
shut  it  before  she  went  down-stairs.  She  got  a  fright  by  seeing 
a  figure  on  the  doorstep,  just  within  the  shadow  of  the  porch. 

'  It's  you,  Mr.  Fergus.  Bless  me,  what  a  fricht  you  gave  me  I 
Come  in,  come  in.' 

'  I  don't  think  I  can  come  in.  I  was  coming  up  by  Corry- 
mickloch,  and  I  thought  I  would  just  run  up  and  ask  for  my 
uncle,  Mrs.  Cameron.  Tell  me  just  how  he  is  ? ' 

'  That  I  wilL  Come  in,  Mr.  Fergus,  just  into  the  gunroom, 
if  no  further,'  said  the  housekeeper,  who  loved  the  boy,  and  had 


THE  LAST  MEETING.  179 

never  forgotten  his  demeanour  that  day  he  came  to  Dalmore 
when  his  uncle's  wife  died.  4  Did  ye  meet  Mr.  M'Bean  ?  He's 
just  this  minute  gone.' 

'  I  saw  him,  but  he  didn't  see  me.  I  came  up  the  footpath, 
and  was  at  the  stable  corner  when  he  went  down  the  avenue,' 
Fergus  answered,  as  he  followed  the  housekeeper  into  the  gun- 
room, which  was  now  never  used.  It  had  been  Fergus 
Macleod's  favourite  haunt  in  the  old  days,  when  nothing  had 
come  between  himself  and  Uncle  Graham. 

'  The  Laird's  far  through,  Mr.  Fergus,'  said  the  housekeeper 
sadly.  '  He  was  just  giving  me  orders  to  send  to  Murrayshaugh 
for  Lady  Ailsa.  Miss  Sheila  will  be  coming  home  immediately, 
likely.' 

'  Is  my  uncle  dying,  Mrs.  Cameron  ? '  asked  Fergus,  in  a 
painful  whisper,  for  she  had  given  him  an  unexpected  shock. 

' 1  fear  it,  Mr.  Fergus.  I  cannot  think  he  will  last  many 
days.' 

'  Could — oh,  do  you  think  he  would  see  me,  Mrs.  Cameron  ? 
I  cannot  bear  to  think  I  may  never  see  him  again.' 

'  Til  ask  him.  Fm  sure  he  will  see  you.  Eh,  laddie,  had  ye 
been  aye  at  Dalmore,  I  believe  this  would  never  have  happened,' 
she  said,  as  she  went  out  of  the  room,  and  once  more  returned 
to  the  Laird's  chamber. 

'  Are  ye  sleeping,  sir  ? '  she  asked. 

1  No ;  what  now  ? '  asked  Macdonald  rather  peevishly. 

'  There's  somebody  come  to  ask  for  ye,  sir,  and  would  fain 
see  ye,'  she  said,  bending  over  him. 

'  Ay  ;  who's  that  ? ' 

'  Mr.  Fergus,  from  Shonnen.* 

'  Bid  him  come  in,  and  turn  up  the  lamp,'  said  the  Laird 
quickly.  '  Give  me  a  mouthful  of  the  wine  before  he  comes  in. 
Ay,  that'll  do.' 

Fergus  had  scarcely  any  hope  that  his  uncle  would  see  him, 
and  was  surprised  when  Mrs.  Cameron  brought  him  the  friendly 
message. 

He  entered  the  sick-room  with  his  cap  in  his  hand,  half 
shyly,  half  eagerly,  as  if  not  knowing  exactly  how  to  comport 
himself.  There  was  a  barrier  now  between  him  and  the  uncle 


i8o  SHEILA. 

who  had  been  the  hero  and  friend  of  his  childish  days.  He 
was  greatly  shocked  by  his  uncle's  changed  appearance.  It  was 
only  six  months  since  he  had  seen  him  before,  but  in  that  time 
a  marked  change  had  been  wrought. 

'  Well,  lad,  have  ye  come  to  see  the  old  man  again  ?  We'll 
not  be  here  very  long  now,'  said  Macdonald,  with  a  grim  smile. 
'  Ye  are  a  big,  buirdly  chield.  Sit  ye  down,  sit  ye  down.' 

Fergus  took  the  wasted  hand  of  his  uncle  between  his  two 
strong  palms  and  pressed  it,  but  was  unable  to  speak.  Graham 
Macdonald  saw  what  was  in  the  boy's  heart,  for  it  spoke  in  his 
earnest  eye,  and  he  wondered  that  he  had  believed  aught  ill  of  him. 

I  Sit  ye  down,  sit  ye  down,'  he  said  quickly,  once  more.     '  So 
ye've  gotten  home  ?  not  a  whit  the  wiser  for  your  college  lore, 
I'll  be  bound.' 

'Ay,  Uncle  Graham,  I've  learned  something,'  answered 
Fergus,  with  a  gleam  of  his  own  bright  smile.  'I've  learned 
what  like  a  town's  life  is,  and  to  be  glad  that  I'm  a  Highland- 
man.' 

'  Well,  that's  something.  Did  ye  meet  our  gentleman  factor 
out  by  as  ye  came  up  ? '  asked  Graham  Macdonald,  with  a 
curious,  dry  smile. 

I 1  saw  him,  Uncle  Graham,  but  he  didn't  see  me,'  Fergus 
answered  quietly. 

'That  was  maybe  as  well.  He  wouldna  be  sair  pleased  to  see 
you  at  Dalmore.  Well,  lad,  he's  made  a  clearance  of  the  Fauld. 
He  says  it'll  be  better  for  Dalmore,  but  I'll  no'  live  to  see 
whether  he  be  a  true  prophet.  They  have  given  me  a  fell 
amount  of  bother  this  while,  Fergus.  They  think  I'm  a  hard 
laird,  but  they  are  waur  tenants.  They  have  served  me  ill, 
Fergus.' 

'  Uncle  Graham,' — in  his  great  earnestness  Fergus  laid  his 
young,  Strong  hand  on  his  uncle's  arm, — •'  you  don't  know  the 
right  way.  I  can't  help  it  if  you  are  angry.  Angus  M'Bean 
has  not  told  you  the  truth  about  the  Fauld  folks.  They  have 
tried  to  do  well,  but  he  would  not  let  them ;  he  has  just  turned 
them  out,  Uncle  Graham.  At  least,  he  made  it  impossible  for 
them  to  live  with  any  comfort  in  the  place,  and  they  were 
obliged  to  leave  before  they  lost  everything.' 


THE  LAST  MEETING.  181 

'  Ye  are  a  perfect  Radical,  laddie.  Ye'll  no'  uphold  the  lairds 
at  all,'  said  Macdonald,  not  ill-pleased  with  his  nephew's  bold 
speech. 

'  I  can't  uphold  what's  wrong,  Uncle  Graham  ;  and  I  say  the 
Fauld  folks  have  not  been  rightly  treated.  Oh,  if  you  could 
only  get  up  and  go  down  to  see  for  yourself!  I  have  been 
down  seeing  them  all  to-night,  and  do  you  know  what  message 
Donald  M'Glashan  sent  up  to  you  ? ' 

'  No ;  what  was  it  ?  An  honest  chap,  the  smith,  but  lazy, 
terribly  lazy.  Wants  to  eat  for  nothing.  But  what  did  \\v 
say?' 

'  He  said  I  was  to  tell  you  they  went  out  not  blaming  you, 
for  they  were  quite  comfortable  when  you  looked  after  your 
own  affairs.  He  said,  too,'  added  the  lad,  a  little  hesitatingly, 
not  knowing  how  his  uncle  might  receive  the  latter  part  of 
Donald's  message,  '  that  a  curse  would  lie  on  Dalmore  till 
Angus  M'Bean  was  put  away.' 

'Ay,  ay,  and  he  said  that?'  said  the  Laird,  with  a  hollow, 
mirthless  laugh.  'There's  no  love  lost  betwixt  the  Fauld  folk 
and  Auchloy.  Well,  well,  Donald  may  be  no'  far  wrang.  Well, 
Fergus,  ye  see  me  far  through.  And  are  you  to  be  Laird  of 
Dalmore  ? ' 

'No,  Uncle  Graham — I  don't  know.  I  wish  you  would  get 
well.' 

'That'll  never  be,'  said  the  Laird,  in  alow  voice.  'Fergus 
Macleod,  whatever  your  lot  may  be,  lay  one  thing  to  heart. 
Marry  young,  lad,  for  if  ye  wait  as  long  as  I  waited,  ye  set  your 
mind  owre  firmly  on  your  wife,  and  if  she  be  taken  as  mine 
was,  it's  death  to  you.  Fergus,  I  believe  ye  never  bore  me  a 
grudge  or  an  ill-will  because  I  married.' 

'  Uncle  Graham,  I  loved  her,'  said  the  boy  simply,  but  with 
an  earnestness  inexpressibly  touching. 

'  Lad,  ye  can  teach  your  elders  a  lesson,  yet  ye  havena  had 
a  chance.  But  ye  are  the  son  of  the  minister  of  Meiklemore, 
who  was  too  good  for  this  world,'  said  the  Laird  musingly. 
'  Tell  me,  do  you  an'  your  mother  agree  ? ' 

*  Agree !  of  course. 

'Well,  ye  are  the  first  Ellen  Macleod  has  ever  'greed  with,' 


1 82  SHEILA. 

said  the  Laird  grimly.  'You  and  Sheila  used  to  be  thick, 
didn't  ye  ?  The  bairn  had  aye  a  great  speakin'  about  ye.' 

Fergus  smiled  somewhat  bashfully,  being  just  at  the  sensitive 
age.  The  Laird  smiled  too,  very  faintly,  at  the  rising  colour  in 
the  lad's  face.  A  new  and  pleasant  thought  had  struck  him, 
but  he  did  not  put  it  into  words. 

4  And  what's  all  this  college  lore  to  do  for  you,  Fergus  ? '  he 
asked.  '  What  are  ye  to  do  for  a  living  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know  yet,  Uncle  Graham.  I  wanted  to  go  and  work 
when  I  came  from  Perth,  but  mother  wanted  me  to  go  to  college.' 

*  Ay,  her  notions  are  high,'  said  the  Laird  dryly.  '  Never- 
theless, ye  must  obey  your  mother,  I  suppose.  A  chap  like 
you  will  never  want,  Fergus  Macleod.  Ye  will  make  a  name 
and  a  place  for  yourself  wherever  ye  be.' 

Fergus  Macleod's  face  flushed  with  pride  and  pleasure  at  his 
uncle's  praise.  He  still  retained  his  old  admiration  for  the 
Laird,  and  his  commendation  meant  a  great  deal. 

'  Fll  not  be  afraid  to  work,  at  any  rate,  uncle,  I'm  so  strong.' 

4  Ay,  ye  look  it.     But  what  would  ye  like  best  to  do  ? ' 

4  Farm  land,'  responded  Fergus  promptly.  '  I  won't  work  at 
anything  that'll  take  me  to  the  town.' 

4  Ay,  ay.  Well,  well.  Ye  may  get  your  heart's  desire,  and 
ye  may  no'.  Fm  tired,  Fergus,  and  maun  bid  ye  good-night. 
Corae  up  the  morn  and  see  me.  You've  fairly  turned  your 
back  on  Dalmore.' 

4  But  no'  my  face,  Uncle  Graham ;  for  it's  the  first  place  I 
look  over  to  when  Fm  at  Shonnen,  and  the  last  at  night,'  said 
Fergus,  laughing,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet.  He  had  not  felt  so 
happy  for  a  long  time.  Confidence  seemed  to  be  restored 
between  himself  and  Uncle  Graham. 

4  Good-night,  then.  Bid  Mistress  Cameron  come  to  me  as 
you  go  down.  Ay,  ay,  ye  are  a  buirdly  chield.  In  five  years 
there'll  not  be  your  marrow  in  Glenquaich  or  Strathbraan. 
An'  she's  a  s\v*et  bairn.  Good-night.  Come  again  the  morn,' 
said  Macdonald  somewhat  drowsily ;  and  when  Fergus  left  him 
he  closed  his  eyes,  but  muttered  half  under  his  breath,  4  Ay,  ay, 
a  buirdly  chield,  and  she's  a  bonnie  bairn.  It  wad  make  a' 
richt  for  Dalmore' 


THE  LAST  MEETING.  183 

Often  Macdonald  lapsed  into  the  broad  Scotch,  especially  in 
moments  of  strong  feeling.  When  Mrs.  Cameron  came  into  the 
room,  she  was  surprised  to  see  two  large  tears  slowly  rolling  down 
the  Laird's  cheeks.  'Is  that  you,  Cameron?'  he  said,  sitting 
up  with  sudden  energy.  '  Bring  me  from  the  library  the 
writing-pad  and  a  broad  sheet  of  paper,  with  pen  and  ink,  and 
set  the  lamp  here  on  this  table.' 

The  housekeeper  opened  the  library  door  and  brought  the 
required  articles,  then  propped  up  the  Laird  among  his  pillows 
to  make  a  comfortable  position  for  writing.  She  was  not 
without  a  natural  curiosity  as  to  what  he  was  going  to  do ;  he 
did  not  often  now  have  a  pen  in  his  hand. 

'  That'll  do,  Cameron.  Is  the  hand-bell  near  ?  Til  ring  it 
when  I  want  ye,'  said  the  Laird,  so  she  was  obliged  to  withdraw. 

It  was  quite  half  an  hour  before  the  bell  rang,  but  when  she 
returned  there  were  no  signs  of  any  written  papers  to  be  seen. 
He  bade  her  take  away  the  things,  and  as  she  did  so  she 
observed  that  a  half  of  the  sheet  she  had  provided  was  gone, 
and  that  the  ink  was  still  wet  on  the  pen  the  Laird  had  used. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


AN   UNWELCOME    INTRUDER. 


I  will  speak  daggers  to  her. 


Hamlet. 


HOSE  carriage  is  that  away  tip  to  Dalmore,  I 
wonder? '  said  Ellen  Macleod  half  aloud,  as  she  was 
standing  at  her  bedroom  window  on  the  upper  flat 
at  Shonnen  next  morning. 

'It's  the  carriage  that  went  for  Lady  Ailsa,  ma'am,'  said 
Jessie  Mackenzie,  the  maid,  who  was  busy  dusting  the  room. 

'  Lady  Ailsa !     Has  she  come  to  Dalmore  ? ' 

'  Yes,  ma'am.  They  told  me  at  the  inn  this  morning,  when 
I  was  over  for  the  milk,  that  the  Laird  was  worse,  and  had.  sent 
for  Lady  Ailsa.' 

Ellen  Macleod  bit  her  lips.  Scarcely  before  a  servant  could 
she  keep  back  the  utterance  of  her  angry  thought. 

'  Get  on  with  your  dusting  there,  Jessie,  and  be  sharp  about 
it.  Do  you  know  it  is  twelve  o'clock  in  the  day  ? '  she  said 
sharply,  as  she  quitted  the  room  and  went  hastily  down-stairs. 
Fergus  was  sitting  on  the  doorstep  carefully  examining  his 
fishing-tackle,  for  it  was  a  mild,  bright  morning,  and  the  burns 
were  in  splendid  order. 

'Fergus,  did  your  uncle  tell  you  last  night  he  had  sent  for 
Lady  Ailsa?'  she  asked  sharply. 

'No,  mother;  he  didn't  say  anything  about  her,* 


AN  UNWELCOME  INTRUDER.  185 

'  Well,  there  she  is  away  up.  He  is  worse  this  morning, 
Jessie  says,  and  7  am  not  called.  But  I'll  go,  Fergus  Macleod, 
in  spite  of  Ailsa  Murray.  I  have  a  right  in  Dalmore  which  she 
has  not.' 

Fergus  dropped  his  rod  and  looked  up  into  his  mother's  face 
with  a  strange,  sad,  perplexed  expression.  There  was  a  hidden 
bitterness,  a  terrible  depth  of  revengeful,  angry  feeling  in  the 
short,  sharp  words  she  uttered.  But  he  had  no  right  to  speak, 
nor  to  say  what  she  should  do,  so  he  turned  to  his  work  again 
with  a  sigh.  And  Ellen  Macleod,  in  the  heat  of  her  anger, 
put  on  her  bonnet  and  marched  away  up  to  Dalmore.  Lady 
Ailsa  was  eating  a  morsel  of  lunch  in  the  dining-room  when  the 
gaunt  black  figure  of  Ellen  Macleod  stalked  in  before  her. 
Lady  Ailsa  saw  the  thunder  on  her  brow,  but  was  absolutely 
mistress  of  the  occasion.  She  was  a  gentle  little  woman,  but 
not  timid  in  matters  of  right  or  wrong,  and  could  be  very 
brave  when  she  had  the  approval  of  her  own  conscience.  She 
had  done  no  wrong  to  Ellen  Macleod  or  her  boy,  and  had  no 
occasion  to  fear  her. 

'  Good  morning,  Ellen,'  she  said  quietly,  and  without  offering 
to  rise  or  shake  hands,  for  she  could  not  forget  the  last  time 
they  had  met.  '  It  is  a  long  drive  from  Murrayshaugh.  I  am 
quite  hungry.  Won't  you  sit  down  ?  ' 

'  If  I  please,  I  suppose  I  may,  in  my  brother's  house,  Lady 
Ailsa,'  said  Ellen  Macleod  icily.  'I  shall  just  go  up  and  lay 
aside  my  bonnet.  As  my  brother  is  so  ill,  I  shall  just  stay.' 

So  saying,  she  marched  out  of  the  room.  When  the  door 
closed  a  smile  of  amusement  rippled  across  Lady  Ailsa's  face, 
but  it  soon  passed,  and  she  looked  perplexed. 

'  That  is  what  in  Alastair's  slang  would  be  called  a  "  go,"  she 
said  to  herself.  'Now,  what  am  I  to  do?  Ellen  Macleod  as 
good  as  told  me  to  quit.  But  am  I  to  leave  poor  Macdonald 
to  her  tender  mercies?  She'll  frighten  him  into  a  fit;  and  then 
there's  Sheila,  poor  darling ;  she'll  be  home  in  two  days.  No, 
I  must  stay,  now  I  am  here,  whatever  the  consequences.'  But 
her  lunch  was  spoiled.  Her  appetite  had  vanished  at  sight  of 
Ellen  Macleod's  sour  visage,  and  she  sat  with  her  elbows  on  the 
table,  wondering  greatly  what  was  going  on  up-stairg. 


1 86  SHEILA. 

Ellen  Macleod  walked  up-stairs,  entered  one  of  the  guest- 
chambers,  and  laid  off  her  bonnet  and  shawL  Her  hard  face 
was  very  resolute.  She  knew  she  had  a  battle  to  fight,  but  she 
was  armed  for  it,  and  intended  to  win.  She  was  not  going  to 
stand  by  and  see  her  son's  heritage  parted  among  aliens  without 
making  an  effort  to  save  it.  As  she  came  out  of  the  room,  Mrs. 
Cameron  met  her,  and  started  as  if  she  had  seen  a  ghost. 

'  Don't  look  so  scared,  Cameron,'  said  Ellen  Macleod,  with  a 
chilly  smile.  *I  have  come  to  nurse  my  brother.  He  has 
moved  from  his  old  rooms,  I  see.  Where  is  he? ' 

'  In  the  little  parlour  off  the  library,  ma'am,'  said  Cameron, 
civilly  enough,  but  her  heart  sank  within  her.  She  had  never 
personally  experienced  Mrs.  Macleod's  rule,  for  there  was  no 
housekeeper  in  Dalmore  in  her  day,  but  she  had  heard  sufficient 
about  her  to  make  her  dread  her  coming  to  the  house. 

She  watched  her  go  down  and  enter  the  library.  When  the 
door  closed,  Cameron  rushed  down  to  the  drawing-room  with  a 
pile  of  household  napery  on  her  arm. 

'Oh,  Lady  Ailsa,'  she  cried,  almost  before  she  was  in  the 
room,  *  do  you  know  who  has  come  ?  Mrs.  Macleod  from 
Shonnen,  and  she's  away  in  to  the  Laird.' 

'Hush,  Cameron!  nevermind.  Mrs.  Macleod  is  the  Laird's 
sister,'  said  Lady  Ailsa  quietly.  *  We  cannot  question  her  right 
to  see  him  if  she  wishes.  I  wish  you  would  order  a  fire  for  me 
in  my  own  room.  It  is  much  colder  here  than  at  Murrays- 
haugh.' 

'O  yes,  my  lady,  111  do  that;  and  you'll  stay?  You  won't 
go  away  and  leave  me  with  Mrs.  Macleod  ? ' 

*  I  must  stay  until  Miss  Macdonald  conies  now,  at  any  rate, 
Cameron,'  said  Lady  Ailsa,  with  a  slight  smile. 

'  The  Laird  was  asking  a  little  ago  if  you  were  ready  to  see 
him,  my  lady.  Will  you  go  in  ? ' 

*  Not  until  Mrs.  Macleod  comes  out,'  said  Lady  Ailsa.     '  When 
she  sees  how  spent  he  is,  she  surely  will  not  stay  long.' 

Meanwhile,  Ellen  Macleod  had  passed  through  the  library 
and  entered  her  brother's  sick-room.  It  was  much  darkened ; 
for  he  had  passed  a  restless,  troubled  night,  and  in  the  morning 
bad  begged  them  to  shut  in  the  windows,  and  he  would  try  to 


AN  UNWELCOME  INTRUDER.  iS7 

sleep.  He  was  awakened  from  a  light  doze  by  the  heavy 
rustling  of  a  woman's  dress  in  the  room. 

'  Is  that  you,  Ailsa  ?  '  he  asked  feebly.  '  Come  in ;  never 
mind  the  windows ;  we  can  talk  quite  well  in  the  dark.  I  have 
a  lot  to  say  to  you.  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come.' 

'  Lady  Ailsa  is  in  the  house,  Macdonald ;  but  I  am  your 
sister,  Ellen  Macleod,  come  over  from  Shonnen  to  see  you.  I 
am  grieved  to  see  you  so  changed.' 

She  spoke  with  unwonted  softness,  for  she  was  terribly 
shocked  by  the  ravages  the  wasted  years  had  made  on  the  once 
stalwart  Laird  of  Dalmore.  But  the  very  sound  of  her  voice 
roused  the  dying  man  into  a  passion  terrible  to  see.  In  his 
long  solitude  he  had  brooded  over  the  past,  and  magnified  the 
unkind  treatment  his  sister  had  bestowed  upon  his  wife,  until  it 
had  become  a  mortal  offence  which  he  would  not  forgive  even 
on  the  verge  of  the  grave. 

'You — you  dare!'  he  cried,  in  a  choking  voice.  'Get  out 
of  my  sight!  I  would  not  curse  you  for  the  boy's  sake,  though 
I  know  not  how  you  ever  bore  such  a  son.  Leave  me,  woman, 
or'— 

The  violence  of  his  anger,  the  purple  flush  in  his  face,  the 
wildness  of  his  eye,  frightened  Ellen  Macleod,  and  she  beat  a 
liasty  retreat  into  the  adjoining  room.  Then  Macdonald  took 
the  hand-bell  and  shook  it  with  tremendous  force,  which  made 
Mrs.  Cameron  drop  her  napery  on  the  hall  floor  and  run  to 
the  room. 

'  What  are  you  about,  Cameron,  that  you  allow  whoever 
ple;ises  to  enter  the  house  and  come  to  my  room  ? '  he  thundered, 
with  something  of  his  old  strength  and  vigour.  '  Lock  the 
doors,  and  let  no  one  come  in  until  I  give  permission.' 

*  Sir,  I  dared  not  keep  Mrs.  Macleod  out,'  said  Cameron, 
trembling,  not  with  nervousness  for  herself,  but  with  apprehen- 
sion for  her  master,  who  was  nearly  in  a  fit. 

4  Why  not?  Where  is  Lady  Ailsa ?  Send  her  here.  What 
is  she  good  for  if  not  to  keep  the  house  in  order  ?  Tell  her 
to  see  that  Mrs.  Macleod  leaves  the  house.' 

Pleasant  words  for  a  sister  to  hear !  Ellen  Macleod,  stand- 
ing by  the  library  table,  clutched  her  hands,  and  her  white  lips 


1 88  SHEILA. 

became  like  a  thread.  She  was  wholly  and  cruelly  injured  in 
her  own  eyes.  She  was  one  of  those  self-righteous  persons  who 
never  take  home  blame  to  themselves.  She  regarded  Macdonald 
as  the  prey  of  self-seeking,  greedy  outsiders,  who  had  turned 
him  against  his  own.  Her  heart  was  a  tumult  of  dark  thoughts, 
unrelieved  by  a  single  kindly  impulse.  Her  face  hardened  yet 
more.  She  gathered  her  skirts  in  her  hand,  and  went  out  by 
the  way  she  had  come.  At  the  dining-room  door  Lady  Ailsa 
was  standing  listening,  afraid  lest  Ellen  Macleod's  visit  had 
done  the  Laird  some  harm. 

'  For  some  extraordinary  reason,  Lady  Ailsa,  my  presence  is 
not  agreeable  to  my  brother,'  she  said,  with  a  dark  scowl. 
'Perhaps  you,  who  are  such  a  privileged  person  in  Dalmore, 
can  explain  it?' 

'Yes,  I  can  explain  it,  Ellen  Macleod,'  said  Lady  Ailsa 
quietly,  but  with  emphasis.  '  I  pass  over  the  insinuation  you 
make  against  me,  and  will  only  ask  you  to  go  back  in  memory 
six  years  ago.  Did  you  do  one  act  of  kindness  or  even  of 
justice  to  the  dear  woman  your  brother  married?  Do 
you  remember  after  her  death  what  sympathy  you  had  for 
her  orphan  child?  You  and  I  met  last  in  this  very  hall, 
Ellen  Macleod,  and  Macdonald  saw  how  you  greeted  the 
poor  child,  whose  desolate  condition  might  have  appealed  to 
your  heart.  Macdonald  has  not  forgotten  these  things,  nor 
have  I.' 

'Nor  have  I,'  said  Ellen  Macleod,  in  the  heat  of  passion.  'I 
know  well  enough  what  you  are  scheming  for,  Ailsa  Murray. 
But  I  shall  watch  you.  If  I  can  help  it,  that  woman's  child 
shall  never  reign  in  Dalmore.' 

'  Were  it  not  that  she  found  a  father  in  Graham  Macdonald, 
and  that  her  heart  cleaves  to  him,  I  should  say  it  was  a  dark 
day  for  her  when  she  crossed  the  threshold  of  Dalmore,'  said 
Lady  Ailsa  sadly.  '  I  ask  no  more  from  Macdonald  but  that  he 
will  give  Sheila  back  to  those  who  love  her.  The  more  needful 
she  is  of  anything  we  have  to  share  with  her,  the  more  welcome 
she  will  be  to  it,  and  she  knows  it.  If  I  have  one  wish  in  this 
world,  Ellen  Macleod,  it  is  that,  after  Sheila  parts  from  her 
father, — and  that  parting,  I  fear,  is  near  at  hand, — she  may  have 


AN  UNWELCOME  INTRUDER.  189 

no  more  dealings  with  this  house  or  with  any  bearing  its 
name.' 

A  sneering  smile,  which  stung  Lady  Ailsa  to  the  quick,  was 
Ellen  Macleod's  only  reply  to  that  passionate  speech.  At  that 
moment,  Cameron,  trembling  and  anxious,  appeared  at  the 
library  door. 

'  Oh,  my  lady,  please  come  in.  The  Laird  will  not  be  quiet 
till  you  come.  He  is  much  worse,'  she  said,  with  an  expressive 
glance  at  Mrs.  Macleod,  who  instantly  entered  the  dining- 
room  and  slammed  the  door. 

Lady  Ailsa  at  once  went  to  the  Laird's  room,  and,  sitting 
down  by  the  bed,  laid  her  cool,  soft  hand  on  his  fevered  brow. 
She  was  an  angel  in  a  sick-room :  her  every  movement,  the  soft 
swaying  of  her  garments  even,  seemed  to  waft  peace  to  the 
sufferer  blessed  by  her  presence. 

'Not  a  word,  Macdonald,  not  one  until  you  are  quiet,'  she 
said,  with  that  sweet  authority  it  was  a  delight  to  obey. 

'  Yes,  yes,'  she  added  soothingly,  '  she  is  gone.  She  will  not 
come  here  again,  and  I  am  going  to  stay  till  Sheila  comes.' 

He  lay  back  among  his  pillows,  contented  by  her  presence 
and  by  the  assurance  she  so  readily  gave.  In  the  brief  silence 
which  ensued,  she  too  noticed  the  change  wrought  since  she 
saw  him  last  a  few  weeks  after  Sheila  left  Dalmore.  He  was 
still  labouring  under  the  excitement  his  sister  had  caused,  his 
breathing  was  hurried  and  difficult,  and  his  eyes  rolling  rest- 
lessly, while  his  hands  and  head  were  in  a  burning  fever. 

'You'll  stay  and  take  care  of  Sheila?'  he  said  at  length,  in  a 
hurried  whisper. 

'Yes,  yes;  Sheila  belongs  to  us.  She  will  be  your  legacy 
to  me,  will  she  not?'  asked  Lady  Ailsa,  with  a  faint,  sad 
smile. 

He  nodded. 

'  Her  mother  would  wish  it,  but  she  was  not  afraid  to  leave 
her  with  me.  Do  you  remember  when  you  wanted  to  take  her 
away  to  Murrayshaugh,  but  the  bairn  would  rather  bide  with 
me?'  said  Macdonald,  smiling  a  little  too.  He  was  much  quieter 
already,  and  Lady  Ailsa  believed  it  would  be  better  to  allow 
him  to  talk  a  little,  provided  dangerous  topics  were  avoided. 


i9o  SHEILA. 

'  Yes,  I  remember.  Ay,  Sheila  loves  you  with  a  daughter's 
love.  This  will  be  a  sore  shock  to  her.' 

'  You  have  sent  for  her  ? ' 

'  Yes,  Sir  Douglas  himself  has  gone  for  her.  He  has  some 
business  which  made  the  journey  not  unprofitable.' 

'  How  soon  will  she  be  here  ? ' 

4  To-morrow,  perhaps  in  the  evening,  if  there  is  no  delay.' 

'  Ay,  ay ;  nobody  knows  what  it  was  to  me  to  let  her  away  ; 
but  I  did  not  want  to  be  selfish.' 

'  If  I  could  have  foreseen  this,  Macdonald,  I  would  have  been 
the  last  to  have  advocated  sending  her  from  you.  I  did  it  for 
the  best.' 

*  I  know  that  you  are  a  good  woman  and  a  true  friend,  Ailsa 
Murray.  She  said  so.  You'll  see  that  I  am  laid  in  the  same 
grave.  Promise  that.' 

'  Yes,  yes.' 

Lady  Ailsa's  tears  choked  her  utterance.  There  was  some- 
thing indescribably  pathetic  in  the  man's  intense,  undying  devo- 
tion to  the  memory  of  his  wife.  He  had  indeed  loved  not 
wisely  but  too  well 

'  I  know  now,  looking  back,  that  I  have  done  but  sorry  duty 
in  the  world  since  she  left  me,'  he  said,  after  a  moment.  '  If  I 
had  it  to  do  again,  I  would  try  to  bestir  myself.  But  it  was  so 
sudden,  so  awful,  it  took  the  heart  clean  out  of  me.  They 
will  not  punish  me,  will  they,  by  parting  us  in  the  other  world  ?' 

'  Who  are  they,  Macdonald  ?  God  is  very  merciful,  far  more 
merciful  to  us,  in  spite  of  our  shortcomings,  than  we  are  to 
each  other,'  said  Lady  Ailsa  reverently.  'He  forgives  unto 
seventy  times  seven.' 

'  He  will  forgive  me,  then,'  said  Macdonald,  in  a  strange, 
drowsy  tone.  'It'll  be  all  right  about  Sheila,  Ailsa.  Nobody 
can  touch  her.' 

'  Macdonald,  I  hope  you  have  not  forgotten  your  own,*  said 
Lady  Ailsa  quickly,  for  a  dread  seized  her  that  the  Lord's 
faculties  were  wandering.  '  Don't  let  your  love  for  Sheila  make 
you  unjust  to  others.  I  hope  that  fine  lad,  Fergus  Macleod, 
will  fill  your  place  as  worthily  as  Laird  of  Dalmore.' 

Macdonald  muttered  a  few  words  she  could  not  aiake  out, 


AN  UNWELCOME  INTRUDER. 


191 


and  then,  turning  on  his  pillow,  closed  his  eyes.  He  lay  so  still 
she  feared  he  had  slipped  away,  but  when  she  laid  her  hand  on 
his  heart,  it  was  still  feebly  pulsing. 

From  that  hour  a  weight  lay  upon  Lady  Ailsa's  heart.  She 
hoped,  nay,  the  hope  was  almost  a  passionate  prayer,  that,  in  Ids 
anger  and  sore  pain  against  his  sister,  Macdonald  had  not 
visited  the  mother's  sin  upon  the  head  of  her  noble,  generous - 
hearted  son,  and  cat  him  off  from  Dalmore. 


CHAPTER  XXL 


1  FAREWELL  TO  LOCHABER.' 

There's  a  track  upon  the  deep,  and  a  path  across  the  sea ; 
But  the  weary  ne'er  return  to  their  ain  countrie. 

GlLFILLAlT. 

HE  day  wore  on,  and  Fergus  waited  at  Shonnen  for 
his  mother's  return.  When  it  grew  grey  dark,  he 
put  on  his  cap  and  sauntered  away  up  by  Amulree, 
to  see  if  she  was  in  sight  on  the  road.  The  inn 
was  very  busy,  for  the  folks  had  gathered  in  at  the  gloaming 
to  discuss  the  affairs  of  the  place.  There  was  plenty  to  talk 
about:  the  departure  of  the  Fauld  folks,  and  the  Laird's 
mortal  illness,  gave  rise  to  that  morbid  speculation  in  which 
the  soul  of  the  village  gossip  delights.  Fergus  heard  his  own 
name  as  he  passed  by  the  open  door,  but  only  smiled  a  little 
and  passed  on.  His  interest  was  centred  in  Dalmore.  What 
could  be  keeping  his  mother?  What  if  a  reconciliation  has 
been  effected  between  her  and  his  uncle  ?  The  thought  made 
his  pulses  tingle,  for  it  opened  up  a  new  and  beautiful  vista. 
He  saw  his  uncle  restored  to  health,  himself  and  his  mother  at 
home  again  in  Dalmore,  and  Sheila  with  them.  Ah,  it  was 
only  a  bright  dream,  never  to  be  fulfilled.  He  passed  on  to 
the  school,  and  sauntered  along  in  the  sweet  spring  dusk  to  the 
Girron  Brig,  and,  after  pausing  for  a  few  minutes  to  watch 
his  old  friends  the  trouts  playing  themselves  in  the  cool,  clear 


'FAREWELL  TO  LOCHABER:  193 

little  currents,  he  crossed  over  and  began  to  climb  the  hill  to 
the  house.  He  seemed  impelled  to  it  without  any  active  desire 
on  his  own  part  There  were  green  buds  and  tender  young 
shoots  on  all  the  trees,  and  the  birds,  harbingers  of  summer, 
were  twittering  in  every  bough.  The  earth  was  full  of  promise 
— it  was  the  spring-time  of  the  year.  As  Fergus  turned  round 
the  sharp  curve  of  the  avenue,  he  saw  a  figure  walking  to  and 
fro  before  the  house,  and  recognised  Lady  Ailsa  Murray,  though 
he  had  not  seen  her  for  years.  When  she  turned  she  saw  him, 
and  came  to  meet  him  with  a  kind  sinile  and  outstretched  hand. 
She  did  not  like  Ellen  Macleod,  but  she  was  too  just  a  wonun: 
to  allow  this  to  prejudice  her  against  the  son. 

'How  are  you,  Fergus?  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you.  It  is 
quite  a  long  time  since  we  met.' 

'  Yes ;  but  you  are  just  the  same,'  said  Fergus  quickly,  and 
his  eye  shone,  for  the  kind,  sweet,  motherly  tone  went  to  his 
heart. 

'  A  little  older,  I  think,'  she  said  gently.  '  You  are  grown 
almost  out  of  all  recognition.  I  have  been  anxious  to  see  you 
for  a  long  time.  Alastair  speaks  so  much  about  you.' 

'  Yes ;  Alastair  is  my  chum.' 

'  I  am  glad  of  it.  You  will  be  able  to  come  down  to 
Murrayshaugh,  I  hope,  before  the  holidays  are  over.  You 
have  come  to  ask  for  your  uncle,  I  suppose  ? ' 

*  Yes,  and  to  see  why  my  mother  stays  so  long.  Is  she  here, 
Lady  Ailsa?' 

'Yes.'  A  cloud  crossed  the  sunshine  on  Lady  Ailsa's  face. 
'  If  you  go  into  the  house  you  will  see  her.  Your  uncle  is 
very  ill,  Fergus.' 

'I  know  he  is,  Lady  Ailsa,'  answered  the  boy,  and  turned  his 
face  away. 

'You  saw  him  last  night,  I  think,  Mrs.  Cameron  said?' 

'Yes.' 

'Fergus,'  said  Lady  Ailsa,  and  she  laid  her  white,  gentle 
hand  on  his  arm,  and  bent  her  soft  eyes  full  on  his  face,  '  I  am 
your  true  friend,  my  boy.  You  believe  I  wish  you  well?' 

'  I  know  it,'  said  Fergus,  with  boyish  impulsiveness. 

From  the  drawing-room  window,  Ellen  Macleod  saw  the  two 


i94  SHEILA. 

together,  and  wondered  what  was  passing  between  them.  Lady 
Ailsa's  action,  and  the  earnest,  beautiful  look  on  Fergus's  up- 
turned face,  struck  her.  She  had  never  called  forth  such  a 
look  on  her  son's  face. 

'I  am  growing  very  anxious  about  some  things,  Fergus,' 
continued  Lady  Ailsa.  'You  know  your  uncle  cannot  live 
long  now  ? ' 

Fergus  nodded. 

'  I  doubt  there  will  be  trouble  about  the  parting  of  Dalmore. 
Do  you  think  you  are  your  uncle's  heir  ? ' 

'I  don't  know,  Lady  Ailsa.  There  is  Sheila,'  said  the  lad, 
and  his  lip  quivered.  She  was  touching  a  very  tender  part. 

4  Fergus,  I  pray  that  Graham  Macdonald  has  not  done  this 
wrong ! '  said  Lady  Ailsa  passionately.  '  Sheila  has  no  right  to 
Dalmore,  and  it  would  make  a  fearful  dispeace.  If  it  is  done, 
there  is  nothing  to  remedy  it  now,  unless  there  should  be  a 
miraculous  betterment  in  your  uncle's  condition.  Whatever 
happens,  Fergus,  you  will  know  that  neither  Sheila  nor  her 
relatives  had  any  desire  after  Graham  Macdonald's  possessions. 
It  is  my  prayer  that  she  will  be  restored  to  us  penniless.  We 
love  her  for  herself.' 

'  But  if  Uncle  Graham  wished  Sheila  to  have  Dalmore,  Lady 
Ailsa,  we  can't  help  it.  I  would  rather  Sheila  had  it  than  any- 
body. She  is  so  good  and  kind  to  the  people  in  Achnafauld.' 

'  God  bless  you,  Fergus  Macleod  I  I  pray  to  see  you  Laird 
of  Dalmore,'  said  Lady  Ailsa,  with  full  eyes,  and,  bending  down, 
she  kissed  the  boy's  broad  forehead  with  a  mother's  kiss ;  and 
Ellen  Macleod  saw  her  do  it,  and  hated  her  yet  more.  Not 
content  with  all  she  had  done,  would  she  try  to  win  the  boy 
over,  and  make  him  a  traitor  to  his  race  ? 

When  Fergus  went  into  the  house,  he  found  his  mother  in 
no  amiable  mood.  Her  self-chosen  position  was  not  enviable 
nor  pleasant.  She  had  forced  herself  into  the  house,  and  kn-ew 
that  it  was  only  because  its  master  believed  her  to  be  gone  that 
there  was  peace  in  the  sick-room.  But  she  had  set  herself  a 
task,  and,  with  the  indomitable  will  which  ruled  her,  she  would 
perform  it  to  the  bitter  end. 

•What  is  it  now?'  she  asked  Fergus,  when  he  came  into  th%. 


« FAREWELL  TO  LOCHABER?  195 

drawing-room.  'I  saw  you  and  Lady  Ailsa  talking  quite 
confidentially.  What  was  she  saying  to  you?' 

'Not  much,  mother.     Are  you  going  to  stay  here  all  night?  ' 

'  Yes.  My  place  is  here  until  your  uncle's  end  comes.  It 
will  not  be  very  long.  But  you  must  go  back  to  Shonnen  and 
take  care  of  the  house.' 

'  Have  you  seen  Uncle  Graham,  mother  ?  ' 

'  Yes.  His  heart  is  completely  poisoned  against  us,  Fergus 
Macleod.  These  Hurrays  have  worked  their  will  with  him. 
I  doubt  you  will  be  the  sufferer;  but  I  will  hold  my  peace 
until  all  is  over,  and  the  result  known.  There  is  no  use  for 
you  waiting  here.' 

'  No.  I  am  going,'  said  Fergus,  but  still  lingered,  looking 
about  the  pretty  quaint  room,  which  was  filled  with  sweet 
memories  of  Sheila  and  her  mother. 

1 A  bonnie  gimcrackery  they've  made  of  this  room,'  said 
Ellen  Macleod  grimly.  'If  this  is  fashionable  taste,  preserve 
me  from  it!  Good-night  then,  Fergus.  If  I  am  not  down 
myself  in  the  morning,  send  Jessie  up  with  some  things  for  me; 
she  will  know  what  to  bring.' 

So  Fergus  had  just  to  go  away  back  by  the  road  he  had 
come.  He  had  no  heart  to  go  along  to  Achnafauld,  for  he 
knew  the  folks  would  be  sad  enough  in  spirit  over  the  parting 
from  the  only  homes  they  had  ever  known.  He  went  to  bed 
early,  leaving  strict  injunctions  with  Jessie  Mackenzie  to  awake 
him  at  five  o'clock.  The  carts  were  to  leave  the  Fauld  at  six 
o'clock,  to  convey  the  folks  down  to  Dunkeld  station  in  time 
to  get  the  first  train.  The  ship  in  which  they  were  to  cross 
the  ocean  was  to  sail  from  the  Broomielaw  late  that  night, 
or  before  sunrise  next  morning.  Never  had  fairer  morning 
dawned  than  the  second  of  April ;  the  sunshine  and  the  joyful 
chorus  of  the  birds  awoke  Fergus,  and  he  was  up  before  Jessie 
was  stirring  down-stairs.  When  he  pulled  up  the  blind,  the 
morning  sun  was  glittering  on  the  loch  and  lighting  up  the 
bcnnie  trees  about  Achnafuuld,  as  if  to  make  the  place  look  its 
fairest  for  the  eyes  that  were  to  look  upon  it  for  the  last  time. 
Theie  was  no  sign  of  mourning  anywhere :  the  sun  was  up,  the 
aky  brilliantly  blue,  save  where  the  fleecy  shafts  relieved  it, 


196  SHEILA. 

and  there  was  a  soft  west  wind  stirring  all  the  young  leaves, 
and  whispering  of  the  summer.  It  was  almost  impossible  to 
be  sad  amid  such  light  and  sunshine,  and  Fergus  felt  glad 
for  the  exiles'  sakes,  knowing  their  hearts  would  be  heavy 
enough  without  any  depressing  influences  from  without.  From 
the  high  windows  of  the  Lodge  he  could  see  right  across  the 
river  to  Achnafauld,  and  when  the  carts,  five  in  number,  set 
out  in  a  long  string  from  the  clachan,  he  ran  hurriedly 
down-stairs  to  awaken  Jessie,  and  to  get  on  his  boots.  He 
wanted  to  be  down  the  road  a  bit  before  he  had  to  bid  them 
good-bye,  for  all  the  Amulree  folks  would  be  out,  and  he  did 
not  want  them  to  hear  anything  he  might  say.  He  walked 
slowly,  often  looking  back  to  see  the  little  train  gradually 
approaching  Amulree.  He  could  hear  the  distant  strains  of 
the  pipes,  and  guessed  that  it  was  blind  Rob  playing  a  farewell 
blast  for  his  friends  and  comrades,  who  were  going  to  a  land 
where  the  sound  of  the  pibroch  would  never  ring  in  their  ears 
save  in  memory  alone. 

When  out  of  sight,  Fergus  sat  down  on  a  heap  of  stones  and 
began  whittling  a  stick  with  his  knife,  to  keep  his  fingers  in 
occupation,  for  he  was  growing  curiously  nervous  and  excited. 
He  had  laid  this  thing  to  heart,  and  was  convinced  in  his  own 
mind  that  a  grievous  wrong  had  been  done  to  the  Fauld  folks. 
It  seemed  a  long  time  before  the  rumble  of  the  carts  sounded 
in  the  near  distance.  There  were  so  many  hand-shakings,  and 
then  a  halt  had  to  be  made  at  the  inn,  where  M'Dougall  gave 
them  cakes  all  round  for  auld  acquaintance'  sake.  But  on 
they  came  at  last,  and  then  Fergus  got  up  to  his  feet,  for  his 
heart  was  full.  In  the  first  cart  were  Jamie  Stewart  and  his 
ailing  wife,  wrapped  in  so  many  shawls  that  she  looked  like  a 
mummy,  but  her  pale  face  wore  a  contented  look,  as  if  she  were 
glad  to  get  away  from  the  place.  Her  bairns  were  all  with  her, 
and  by  her  side  her  daughter-in-law,  young  Rob's  wife,  who 
had  looked  forward  to  being  mistress  of  Little  Turrich.  In  the 
second  cart,  the  smith's  broad  face  shone  red  and  rosy  under 
his  big  Tarn  o'  Shanter;  but  Mary's  eyes  were  swollen  and  red, 
for  she  had  bidden  good-bye  for  ever  to  a  wee  grave  in  the 
kirkyard  at  Shian,  where  her  first  and  last  bairn  slept. 


FAREWELL  TO  LOCHABER?  197 

She  had  a  root  of  heather  from  that  little  mound  in  her  kist, 
and  it  was  her  hope  and  prayer  that  that  root  would  take  kindly 
to  Canadian  soil,  and  so  make  a  bit  of  home  for  her  in  the 
strange  land.  Ewan  M'Fadyeu's  soul  had  failed  him  at  the  last 
moment,  so  he  was  not  of  the  number,  but  there  was  a  goodly 
band, — five-and-twenty  souls  in  all, — big  brawny  men,  sonsy 
wives,  and  bonnie  healthy-faced  bairns,  who  would  make  a  grand 
living  for  themselves  under  fair  conditions  anywhere.  The  gain 
would  be  entirely  theirs,  the  loss  to  the  country  that  was  letting 
so  much  of  its  best  blood  go  forth  from  it. 

'There  he  is,  bless  him! '  they  cried,  as  Fergus  stood  still  in 
the  road,  and  took  off  his  bonnet  as  he  gave  them  greeting. 
Then  Rob  the  piper  ceased  his  strain,  and  the  carts  came  to 
a  standstill,  and  a  score  of  hands  were  outstretched  to  bid 
good-bye  to  the  '  young  Laird,'  as  he  was  always  called  in  the 
Fauld. 

*  We  kenned  ye  wad  turn  up  to  wush  us  weel,  lad,'  cried  the 
smith.  *  We'll  never  forget  ye,  Maister  Fergus.  Ye  hae  aye 
been  oor  freenV 

1  No,  don't  forget  me.  Some  day,  when  I'm  a  man,  I'll  come 
out  and  see  you  all,'  answered  Fergus,  and  there  was  a  sus- 
picious trembling  in  his  voice,  for  the  women  were  all  crying, 
and  he  could  see  quite  well  that  the  men  were  feeling  the  trial 
quite  as  keenly,  if  they  made  less  outward  sign. 

'  Cheer  up  I '  cried  Fergus.  '  You'll  all  grow  rich  and  be 
lairds  in  your  own  right  out  there.' 

'  Ay,  ay ;  but  if  we  had  our  choice,  lad,  we  ken  whaur  we 
wad  fain  be,  an*  under  which  laird,'  said  Rory  Maclean,  stroking 
his  long  yellow  beard,  and  looking  with  mournful  significance  at 
Fergus. 

'  But  we  hae  muckle  to  be  thankful  for,  for  we  are  no'  gaun 
to  a  new  country  like  beggars,'  said  the  smith.  '  Eh,  lad,  John 
Morrison  will  never  shae  your  meer  when  ye  get  her  as  I 
wad.  He'll  never  be  a  smith ;  but  he'll  hae  some  fun  wi' 
the  smiddy  him.' 

This  made  a  bit  laugh  among  them,  and  before  it  had  quite 
died  away  the  carts  moved  on,  and  Rob  struck  up  '  Lochaber  no 
more.'  Then  all  eyes  were  turned  back,  for  in  a  moment  the 


198  SHEILA. 

Keeper's  Wood  would  hide  bonnie  Glenquaich  from  their  sight 
for  evermore. 

Then  Fergus,  with  the  salt  tears  blinding  his  eyes,  waved  a 
last  good-bye,  and  turned  back  towards  Shonnen.  And  so  the  first 
pioneers  from  Glenquaich  set  out  for  that  far  land  across  the 
seas  which  was  to  be  a  kinder  mother  to  them  than  old  Scotland 
had  been.  As  the  carts  lumbered  slowly  down  Dalreoch  Brae 
to  the  strains  of  Rob's  mournful  piping,  a  carriage  and  pair  came 
rapidly  up  the  road.  It  was  closed,  but  at  the  sound  of  the 
pipes  a  fair  young  face  peered  out  in  wondering  surprise.  '  Oh, 
Uncle  Douglas,  tell  him  to  stop  I '  she  cried  excitedly.  *  It  is  the 
people  of  Achnafauld  going  away  to  America,  I  am  sure.  I  must 
speak  to  them.' 

Sir  Douglas,  a  little  cross  and  tired  with  his  hurried  journey- 
ing, gave  the  order  rather  ungraciously,  and  when  the  carriage 
stopped  Sheila  opened  the  door  and  ran  up  the  road  to  meet  the 
carts.  At  sight  of  her  a  cheer  broke  forth  from  the  travellers, 
the  women  ceased  their  low,  mournful  crooning  of  a  Gaelic  dirge, 
and  their  faces  brightened  at  sight  of  that  sweet,  earnest 
young  faco,  in  which  love  and  sorrow  for  them  was  so  plainly 
expressed. 

She  had  to  go  round  and  round  shaking  hands  with  every 
one,  though  I  do  not  think  she  spoke  many  words.  Her  heart 
was  full  to  overflowing,  and  she  was  just  beginning  to  realize 
how  fraught  life  is  with  hard  experiences  and  bitter  sorrows. 
But  it  was  a  satisfaction  to  her  and  to  them  to  have  that  last 
good-bye.  Sir  Douglas  Murray  leaned  back  in  the  carriage,  and 
did  not  look  out  while  that  scene  was  being  enacted.  Alastair's 
child  was  a  very  odd  little  girl,  he  had  thought  more  than  once 
since  they  had  begun  their  hurried  journey  to  Dalmore,  but  he 
did  not  trouble  himself  about  her. 

'Well,  my  dear,  have  you  got  your  leave-takings  over?1  he 
said  good-humouredly,  when  she  took  her  seat  again  beside  him. 

'  Yes,  uncle,'  was  all  she  said,  in  a  very  quiet,  self-possessed 
manner. 

He  wondered  why  she  was  not  crying  over  it,  but  her  face 
was  very  grave  and  white,  and  she  folded  her  hands  on  her 
knees,  and  sat  up  in  a  curious,  composed  way,  which  made  he/ 


'FAREWELL  TO  LOCHABER!  199 

uncle  look  at  her  again.  She  was  certainly  odd.  She  had  the 
dignity  and  self-command  of  a  person  thrice  her  years. 

*0h,  Uncle  Douglas,  tell  him  to  stop  again ! '  she  cried  quite 
suddenly,  just  when  they  were  past  the  inn.  '  There  is  Fergus ; 
I  must  stop  and  speak  to  Fergus.' 

'  My  dear  Sheila,  you  are  a  perfect  nuisance,'  said  Sir  Douglas. 
1  When  do  you  suppose  we'll  get  to  Dal  more  at  this  rate  ? ' 

But  Sheila  never  heard  him.  She  was  leaning  half  out  of  the 
carriage  window,  with  her  hat  pushed  back,  and  the  sweet 
morning  wind  tossing  her  brown  hair  on  her  white  brow,  her 
eyes  shining  with  real  gladness  at  sight  of  her  old  companion 
and  friend. 

'  Sheila  I '  cried  Fergus,  and  with  a  bound  he  was  at  the 
carriage  door,  and  they  clasped  hands  in  silence,  though  their 
eyes  were  eloquently  speaking. 

'  Oh,  Fergus,  I  met  the  people.  Did  you  see  them  ?  All  the 
little  Stewarts,  and  poor  Eppie  Maclean,  with  her  lame  leg. 
How  awfully  lonely  and  empty  the  Fauld  will  be,  won't  it,  now?  ' 

'  Ay,  it  will,'  Fergus  said  a  little  gruffly,  to  hide  the  emotion 
he  had  not  mastered  yet. 

'  And  poor  papa,'  said  Sheila,  the  tears  welling  in  her  soft, 
beautiful  eyes.  '  Oh,  Fergus,  how  sad  it  is  to  live  in  this  world, 
isn't  it?' 

Poor  young  things!  Their  early  days  were  being  darkly 
shadowed.  The  reality  and  solemn  earnestness  of  human  life 
was  being  forced  upon  them  before  they  had  tasted  much  of  its 
gladsome  joy. 

'  Were  you  going  up  to  Dalmore,  Fergus  ?  Will  you  come 
in  V  There's  only  Uncle  Douglas,'  said  Sheila,  but  '  Uncle 
Douglas '  never  looked  out. 

'  No,  I  was  not  going  up  just  now.  I'll  come  up  by  and  by, 
Sheila,  and  see  you.' 

'  Oh,  do,  very  soon,  dear  Fergus  I  Good-bye  just  now,'  said 
Sheila,  and  then  the  carriage  rolled  on  again,  and  Fergus  was 
left  alone  in  the  road.  But  somehow  Sheila  had  comforted  him. 
She  alone  understood  and  shared  his  feelings  for  the  Fauld  folk, 
and  it  is  a  great  thing  when  an  earnest  soul  finds  its  fellow ;  of 
course  it  can  have  but  ont  issue,  but  the  bairns  wure  too  young 


200  SHEILA. 

yet  to  know  the  meaning  of  the  curious  yearning  each  had 
towards  the  other.  Ah,  they  would  understand  it  soon  enough. 

Sheila  never  spoke  another  word  till  they  drove  up  to  the 
door  of  Dalmore,  and  she  sprang  with  a  great  sob  into  Aunt 
Ailsa's  arms. 

'  My  darling,  keep  quiet !  Don't  tremble  so,  my  sweet,'  said 
Aunt  Ailsa,  in  those  exquisite,  tender  tones  which  were  like 
softest  music.  '  Come  in,  come  in ;  you  are  so  tired,  my 
precious.  But  Aunt  Ailsa  is  here.' 

'Yes,  yes,  I  will  be  quiet.  Can  I  see  papa  just  now,  Aunt 
Ailsa?  I  don't  think  I  can  wait.' 

*  Only  till  you  eat  a  morsel  of  breakfast,  dear.' 

'  Aunt  Ailsa,  I  couldn't  take  it.  It  would  choke  me.  I  am 
not  hungry  or  tired  or  anything.  Just  let  me  go  to  papa.  Oh, 
auntie,  such  a  long,  long,  long  journey  I  It  seems  like  years 
since  we  left  London.' 

'  Yes,  dear,  you  were  anxious  to  be  home.  I  am  so  thankful 
you  have  come.  Just  in  time,  Sheila,  just  in  time  to  say 
good-bye.' 

'  I  knew  it,'  said  Sheila  quietly,  as  she  laid  off  her  hat,  and 
smoothed  her  bright  hair  with  hurried  hands.  'Aunt  Ailsa, 
I  ought  never  to  have  gone  away.  I  shall  never  forgive 
myself.1 

*  Hush,  hush  1  that  was  for  the  best.    This  way,  Sheila.    Have 
you  forgotten  where  papa's  rooms  are  ? ' 

At  that  moment  Ellen  Macleod  came  sweeping  down  the  front 
staircase.  Sheila  only  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  with  startled 
eyes,  and  then  passed  through  the  library  door.  She  no  longer 
feared  the  strong,  black-browed  woman  whom  Fergus  called 
*  mother,'  but  the  memory  of  that  cruel  blow  was  burned  into 
her  heart. 

'Just  go  in,  Sheila.  I  shall  wait  here.  I  think  the  doctor  is 
in,'  whispered  Lady  Ailsa. 

Sheila  nodded,  and  walked  with  steady  step  into  the  chamber 
of  the  dying  Laird. 

The  doctor  and  the  housekeeper  were  standing  by  the  bed. 
Macdonald,  after  a  paroxysm  of  breathlessness,  was  lying  white 
and  still  as  death.  Sheila  stepped  forward  and  silently  knelt 


1  FAREWELL  TO  LOCHABER?  201 

down  by  the  bed.  She  made  no  noise,  but  the  sense  of  her 
beloved  presence  was  with  Macdonald,  and  he  opened  his  eyes. 
The  other  two  silently  withdrew.  Then  Sheila  bent  over  and 
laid  her  quivering  lips  to  his  brow. 

'  Papa !  oh,  dear  papa  1 ' 

'  My  Sheila !  My  ain  bairn !  It  is  well,'  said  the  Laird,  in 
tones  of  deep  content.  He  laid  his  feeble  hand  on  her  bonnie 
head,  and  his  lips  moved.  He  was  blessing  her.  She  felt  it, 
though  she  could  not  hear  any  words. 

There  was  a  deep  silence  in  the  room,  and  then  a  slight 
struggle  (harbinger  of  the  end)  shook  Macdonald's  wasted  frame 
once  more. 

*  Go  away,  Sheila ;  good-bye,'  he  said,  with  extreme  difficulty. 
1  Fergus — be  good  to  him ;  will  in — ' 

He  stopped  and  pointed  vaguely  round  him.  It  was  a  last 
effort.  Sheila  shivered  and  fell  upon  her  knees,  covering  her 
face  with  her  hands.  The  others  came  hurriedly  in.  Aunt 
Ailsa  put  her  arm  round  the  kneeling  girl  and  laid  her  gentle 
hand  on  her  head.  Sir  Douglas  stood  by  with  folded  arms,  and 
in  a  few  minutos  the  last  struggle  was  over,  and  Macdonald  had 
closed  his  eyes  for  ever  on  Dalmore* 


CHAPTER  XXIL 


SHEILAS   INHERITANCE. 

The  best  laid  schemes  o*  mice  an'  men 
Gang  aft  agley. 


BURNS. 


N  the  library  of  Dalmore,  on  the  afternoon  of  the 
fifth  of  April,  there  was  gathered  a  party  of  nine 
persons.  They  were  Sir  Douglas  and  Lady  Murray, 
with  their  son  Alastair,  and  Sheila,  Ellen  Macleod 
and  Fergus,  Mr.  Macfarlane,  the  minister  of  Amulree,  Angus 
M'Bean,  the  factor,  and  David  Colquhoun,  the  writer  from 
Perth.  All  were  in  deep  mourning ;  the  gentlemen  had  just 
returned  from  the  churchyard  at  Shian,  where  they  had  laid  the 
Laird  of  Dalmore  to  his  rest.  Dinner  was  also  over.  Mr. 
Colquhoun  had  suggested  that  dinner  should  be  served  before 
the  will  was  read,  knowing  very  well  that  after  the  scene  which 
would  take  place  in  the  library  these  nine  persons  would  never 
again  break  bread  under  the  same  roof-tree.  For  the  first 
time  for  many  years,  Ellen  Macleod  once  more  presided  at  the 
table  in  the  house  of  Dalmore.  She  was  very  gracious,  even 
to  the  Murrays ;  she  believed  that  their  day  was  completely 
over.  She  did  not  wish  it  more  fervently  than  they ;  their  hope 
was  that  Fergus  Macleod  would  prove  to  be  his  uncle's  sole 
heir.  They  loved  Sheila  as  their  own  child,  and  wished  for 
nothing  more  than  to  take  her  away  from  Dalmore  with  them, 
as  such,  that  very  night.  Lady  AUsa  hoped  and  even  prayed 

SOJ 


SHEILA'S  INHERITANCE.  203 

for  it,  but  did  not  expect  it.  A  great  fear  lay  upon  her.  She 
ate  nothing  at  the  table,  and  could  scarcely  take  part  in 
the  quiet  desultory  talk  which  beguiled  the  hour.  She  was 
almost  sick  with  apprehension,  when  they  rose  at  length  and 
filed  into  the  library.  There  was  no  lingering  at  the  table,  the 
meal  being  purely  formal.  The  moment  dessert  was  over, 
Ellen  Macleod  rose  and  led  the  way  from  the  room.  She 
looked  majestic  in  her  stiff,  trailing  robe  of  black  silk,  with  its 
heavy  trimmings  of  crape.  She  moved  with  a  consciousness  of 
power  and  place,  which  gave  Lady  Ailsa  a  kind  of  fearsome 
amusement.  Sheila  looked  exquisitely  lovely  in  her  plain 
black  frock,  kept  close  by  her  aunt,  and  sat  beside  her  on  the 
settee  which  stood  in  the  square  window  of  the  library.  Ellen 
Macleod  seated  herself  near  the  table ;  the  gentlemen  all  stood. 
There  was  an  air  of  expectancy  about  them  all,  and  Angus 
M'Bean  was  visibly  excited.  The  two  young  persons  most 
deeply  and  immediately  interested  were  the  most  unconscious 
present. 

'  We  are  all  ready,  Mr.  Colquhoun,'  said  Ellen  Macleod, 
when  the  laywer  seemed  to  hesitate  a  little  as  he  opened  out 
the  bundle  of  documents  he  held  in  his  hand. 

'Yes,  madam;  I  shall  not  detain  you  long,'  replied  the 
lawyer  courteously.  '  The  will  itself  is  very  brief  and  simple  ; 
whether  it  will  be  satisfactory  or  not  to  all  present  I  cannot 
say.' 

He  cleared  his  throat  a  little,  and  straightened  his  high 
collar  as  if  it  impeded  his  utterance.  Lady  Ailsa  clasped  her 
hands  almost  convulsively  over  Sheila's,  and  leaned  forward,  her 
face  pale  with  her  intense  excitement.  Ellen  Macleod  had  her 
hands  placidly  folded  on  the  table ;  her  face  wore  an  expression 
of  expectant  complacency.  Fergus  was  standing  in  the  little 
corner  window  with  his  back  to  the  company.  He  could  see 
right  up  Glenquaich  to  the  trees  at  Shian,  and  the  sunlight 
was  striking  on  the  little  burying-ground.  He  even  fancied  he 
could  see  the  mound  of  the  new-made  grave.  The  lawyer's 
voice  recalled  his  wandering  thoughts. 

'  I,  Graham  James  Macdonald  of  Dalmore  and  Findowie, 
declare  this  to  be  my  last  will  and  testament,  for  which  all  other 


204  SHEILA. 

documents  whatsoever  must  be  set  aside.  I  leave  to  Jane 
Cameron,  my  housekeeper,  the  sum  of  two  hundred  pounds,  for 
her  faithful  attendance  upon  me.  To  John  Macfarlane,  tlie 
minister  of  Amulree,  two  hundred  pounds,  on  condition  that  he 
acts  as  trustee  on  my  estate  ;  to  my  nephew,  Fergus  Macleod, 
presently  residing  at  Shonnen  Lodge,  a  thousand  pounds,  tc 
stock  the  farm  of  which  he  spoke  to  me ;  and  lastly,  to  my 
well- beloved  daughter,  Sheila  Murray  Macdonald,  the  lands  and 
estates  of  Dalniore  and  Findowie,  together  with  all  furnishings 
and  plate  and  plenishing,  and  the  entire  residue  of  my  estates, 
both  personal  and  monetary,  absolutely  for  her  own  use  and 
benefit.  I  only  ask  that  she  shall  retain  Angus  M'Bean  of 
Auchloy  as  her  steward  until  she  shall  reach  the  age  of 
twenty-one,  when  she  can  act  upon  her  own  discretion.' 

There  was  a  moment's  absolute  silence  when  the  lawyer 
ceased  speaking.  He  was  the  first  to  break  it  by  rising  and 
approaching  Sheila  with  outstretched  hand. 

'I  congratulate  you,  Miss  Murray  Macdonald,  upon  your 
inheritance,'  he  said.  Then  Ellen  Macleod  rose  slowly  and 
majestically  from  her  seat  and  faced  those  in  the  front  window. 
Involuntarily  Sir  Douglas  moved  towards  his  wife.  Fergus 
turned  from  his  post  and  looked  at  his  mother's  face.  It  was 
absolutely  colourless,  but  her  eyes  were  like  burning  coal. 
Both  hands,  held  straightly  by  her  sides,  were  clenched  until 
the  nails  were  driven  into  the  palms. 

'David  Colquhoun,'  she  said,  and  her  very  voice  seemed 
changed,  'I  give  notice  that  in  my  son's  name  I  contest  this 
will' 

'  Madam,  if  I  may  be  permitted  to  advise,  I  say  no,'  said  the 
lawyer  quietly.  'The  wUl  is  perfectly  valid,  and  not  unjust.' 

'Not  unjust!'  screamed  Ellen  Macleod,  her  anger  bursting 
forth  like  a  fierce  flame.  *  Not  unjust,  David  Colquhoun,  for 
a  man  to  pass  by  and  slight  his  own  for  those  who  have  no 
claim  upon  him  !  Not  unjust !  There  is  no  court  in  Scotland 
which,  knowing  the  circumstances,  would  hesitate  to  set  it 
aside  on  account  of  undue  influence.  My  brother's  long  illness 
weakened  his  intellect,  and  these  people  have  turned  it  to  their 
own  advantage.' 


SHEILAS  INHERITANCE.  205 

1  Have  a  care,  Mrs.  Macleod  ;  your  charges  are  actionable,' 
said  Sir  Douglas  Murray,  with  haughty  stiffness.  '  Be  pleased 
to  remember  of  whom  you  are  speaking,  and  be  more 
careful.' 

'  I  know  very  well  of  whom  I  am  speaking,  Sir  Douglas 
Murray,  but  I  do  not  so  particularly  blame  you/  said  Ellen 
Macleod,  sweeping  him  a  little  haughty  curtsey,  which  made 
his  proud  cheek  redden.  '  Ailsa  Murray,  will  you  answer  me  a 
question  ?  Do  you  consider  the  will  which  has  just  been  read 
as  perfectly  fair  and  just?' 

Lady  Ailsa  rose,  and  Sheila,  slipping  her  hand  from  her 
aunt's,  went  across  the  room  to  Fergus.  For  a  moment  her 
action  was  scarcely  noticed.  Ellen  Macleod  engrossed  all 
attention. 

'  Ellen  Macleod,  it  has  been  my  unceasing  hope  and  prayer 
that  Macdonald  would  not  make  Sheila  his  heiress,'  said  Lady 
Ailsa  sadly.  '  I  have  never  ceased  to  urge  upon  him  his 
nephew's  claim.  It  is  to  me  a  greater  grief  even  than  his 
death.' 

'  These  are  fine  words,  Ailsa  Murray,  but  they  are  only 
word?,'  said  Ellen  Macleod,  with  a  bitter  sneer,  '  But  let  that 
white-faced  child  not  be  too  proud  of  her  inheritance.  There 
is  a  curse — the  curse  of  the  wronged  and  the  robbed — upon 
Dalmore  and  upon  her.' 

'  Look  at  these  two,  Ellen  Macleod,  and  if  you  have  a 
woman's  heart  pray  to  God  to  forgive  your  cruelty,'  said  Lady 
Ailsa,  with  brimming  eyes,  and  pointing  to  the  window  recess 
where  Sheila  and  Fergus  stood  side  by  side,  Sheila  with  her 
slim  girlish  hand  laid  upon  the  arm  of  Fergus,  and  her  sweet 
eyes  uplifted  to  his  face. 

The  abrupt  silence  arrested  Sheila.  She  looked  round,  and 
then  crossed  the  room  again  with  a  steady  step.  There  was  a 
dignity  and  grace  about  her  which  impressed  all  present.  She 
stepped  into  the  little  circle,  and  directly  faced  t,he  lawyer  and 
the  angry  mistress  of  Shonnen.  There  was  a  l>reathless  silence, 
which  her  sweet  young  voice  immediately  broke. 

'  Mr.  Colquhoun,'  she  said  clearly  and  distinctly,  '  am  I  the 
mistress  of  Dalmore  ? ' 


206  SHEILA. 

The  lawyer  bowed  his  head.  He  had  witnessed  many  curious 
scenes,  but  never  one  like  this." 

<  Can  I  do  what  I  like  with  it  ?  ' 

'  It  is  bequeathed  to  you  absolutely  for  your  own  use  and 
benefit,  Miss  Murray  Macdonald,'  he  answered,  quoting  the 
terms  of  the  will.  Sheila  turned  aside.  As  she  passed  by 
Ellen  Macleod  she  drew  in  her  dress,  lest  it  should  touch  the 
stiff,  aggressive  skirts  of  that  relentless  woman. 

'Fergus,  you  hear!'  she  said,  touching  Fergus  on  the  arm 
again.  'Dalmore  is  mine.  I  give  it  to  you,  so  it  does  not 
belong  to  me  any  more.  I  know  you  love  it,  dear  Fergus,  and 
I  give  it  to  you.' 

There  was  something  indescribably  pathetic  in  the  look  which 
passed  between  these  two  young  things,  just  standing  on  the 
threshold  of  manhood  and  womanhood,  and  too  early  thrust 
upon  its  cares. 

Fergus  never  spoke;  but  those  who  were  present  long 
remembered  the  expression  upon  his  face. 

*  You're  a  brick,  Sheila  1 '  cried  the  boyish,  matter-of-fact  voice 
of  Alastair  Murray.     It  broke  the  strain.     Sheila  smiled  wanly, 
and   with  tottering  steps  came   back  to   Lady  Ailsa  and  fell 
upon  her  breast. 

4  Take  me  away,  Aunt  Ailsa,  take  me  away  1 '  she  sobbed,  her 
whole  form  shaking.  '  I  am  afraid  of  her.  Take  me  away.' 

Lady  Ailsa  wound  her  arm  about  the  girl's  quivering  form 
and  led  her  out  of  the  room.  When  the  door  closed  there  was 
an  awkward  and  uncomfortable  pause.  Ellen  Macleod  was 
rebuked  in  her  inmost  heart,  but  it  suited  her  to  assume  a 
haughty  scorn  of  the  whole  proceedings. 

*  Gentlemen,  I  fancy  we  need  not  prolong  this  interview  ? '  said 
the  lawyer,  looking  inquiringly  round. 

'  I  should  imagine  not.  It  has  not  been  particularly  pleasant 
thanks  to  you,  madam,'  said  Sir  Douglas,  looking  fixedly  at 
Ellen  Macleod. 

She  merely  shrugged  her  shoulders  in  reply. 

*  Mr.  Colquhoun,  I  repeat  that  I  intend  to  contest  this  will, 
she  said  pointedly  to  the  lawyer. 

*  Madam,  no  respectable  practitioner  would  assist  you,  much 


SHEILA'S  INHERITANCE.  207 

less  any  court  of  justice  entertain  your  claim,'  retorted  the 
lawyer,  for  she  wearied  and  disgusted  him.  '  Besides,  your  son, 
I  fancy,  would  not  support  the  claim  you  would  raise  on  his 
behalf/ 

'  My  son  has  a  craven  spirit.  He  should  have  flung  back  the 
insulting  offer  in  the  teeth  of  the  child  who  made  it,'  said  Ellen 
Macleod,  her  anger  rising  again.  '  Receive  a  gift  of  his  own, 
indeed,  and  to  stand  by  tamely  and  hear  it  I  I  am  ashamed  of 
my  son,  Mr.  Colquhoun.' 

'  Unless  I  am  mistaken,  he  is  ashamed  of  you,'  said  the 
lawyer  shortly.  He  was  grieved  and  sorry  for  the  boy,  who 
had  been  obliged  to  witness  this  unseemly  scene  and  keep 
silent.  There  was  a  look  of  intense  misery  on  his  face,  noted 
by  all  present.  He  turned  about  when  the  lawyer  spoke,  and 
went  out  of  the  room.  Alastair  slipped  after  him,  and  outside 
the  door  caught  him  and  put  his  arm  through  his. 

'Never  mind,  old  boy,  don't  take  on,'  he  said  eagerly  and 
affectionately.  '  Everybody  understands  you,  and — '  He 
paused  suddenly,  for  it  would  hardly  do  to  say  anything  to 
Fergus  about  his  own  mother. 

*  And  what  a  mother  I '  as  Alastair  remarked  privately  to  his 
brothers  that  night.  '  I  tell  you  it's  rough  on  a  fellow  having 
such  an  out-and-out  Tartar  of  a  mother.' 

4  Alastair,1  said  Fergus  wearily,  '  let  me  alone.  I — I  can't 
speak  to  you  just  now.' 

'I  see  you're  dreadfully  cut  up,  but  don't  mind.  Everybody 
knows  you're  a  brick,1  said  Alastair  quickly.  '  But,  I  say,  isn't 
Sheila  a  stunner,  and  didn't  she  give  it  hot  to — * 

Another  abrupt  pause. 

'  I'd  better  get  out,  or  I'll  put  my  foot  in  it,'  muttered 
Alastair  to  himself.  Fergus  had  not  noticed  it,  however.  But 
what  he  thought  of  Sheila  nobody  would  ever  know  until  the 
day  came  when  he  told  Sheila  herself.  But  that  chance  did  not 
come  for  a  long  time. 

'  Well,  I'll  leave  you,  for  I  see  I'm  a  bore.  Mind  you 
promised  to  come  over  to  Murrayshaugh,  and  don't  be  cut  up. 
It'll  all  come  right — everything  always  does.'  With  which 
cheerful  philosophy  good-natured  Alastair  shook  his  friend 


208  SHEILA. 

warmly  by  the  hand  and  departed.  Fergus  walked  on  a  few 
steps,  and  then,  finding  he  was  beginning  to  descend  the 
hill,  he  paused  for  a  moment  as  if  undecided  what  to  do.  He 
looked  across  to  Shonnen,  There  was  no  comfort  there.  His 
mother  would  follow  soon ;  and,  God  help  the  lad  1  at  that 
moment  he  shrank  from  his  mother  with  his  whole  soul.  He 
turned  round,  and  cut  his  way  through  the  thicket  to  the 
heathery  steep  behind  the  house.  Up,  up.  At  the  very  crest 
of  Crom  Creagh  he  would  be  safe.  He  must  be  alone  for  a 
little,  for  there  was  a  tumult  raging  in  his  soul.  He  took 
notice  as  he  went  of  the  fresh  green  shoots  on  the  heather,  and 
that  here  and  there  a  daisy  and  a  buttercup  were  in  flower.  The 
sweet  spring  day  was  passing  fair  and  full  of  divinest  promise, 
but  his  mind  was  dull  and  forlorn.  He  felt  very  des  late  upon 
the  face  of  the  earth.  His  strong  young  limbs  soon  climbed  the 
steep  ascent,  and  among  the  boulders  and  rough  bracken  on  the 
very  summit  of  the  hill  he  sat  him  down.  A  ewe  and  her 
twin  larnbs,  grown  strong  and  sturdy  with  the  genial  sun,  eyed 
him  in  mild  surprise,  but  did  not  appear  timid  in  his  presence. 
He  sat  down  on  a  stone,  and,  taking  off  his  cap,  allowed  the 
grand  healthful  wind  to  blow  about  him.  Even  in  the  ab- 
solute calm  of  a  summer's  day  it  was  always  breezy  up  Crom 
Creagh. 

Away  up  bonnie  Glenquaich  the  sun  shone  radiantly,  the 
loch  glowed  and  flashed  like  burnished  silver,  and  the  winding 
river  made  a  silver  thread,  too,  among  the  green  meadow-lands 
on  either  side.  He  was  looking  straight  down  on  Achnafauld, 
and  mechanically  counted  sixteen  '  reeking  lums '  where  there 
had  been  formerly  four-and-twenty.  There  were  seven  empty 
houses  in  the  clachan,  and  the  beginning  of  Rob's  prophecy  was 
fulfilled.  Glenquaich  1  which  he  loved  and  had  hoped  to  call 
his  own.  That  brief,  bright  dream  was  over,  and  it  belonged  to 
Sheila  now.  Memories  crowded  upon  the  lad,  for  when  hope 
seems  quenched  memory  sometimes  has  a  healing  touch.  They 
were  tender  memories  of  Uncle  Graham  and  of  his  sweet  wife, 
who  were  sleeping  now  side  by  side  in  Shian,  reunited  by 
death. 

Through   the  blinding   tears   which   had  broken  down  the 


SHEILA'S  INHERITANCE. 


209 


miserable  stony  calm  that  had  bound  him  in  the  house,  he 
presently  caught  sight  of  a  horse  and  rider  crossing  the  Girron 
Brig.  It  was  Angus  M'Bean,  the  factor,  away  home  to  Auchloy. 
'  Ay,  ay,'  he  was  muttering  to  himself.  '  One-and-twenty !  It's 
a  puir  fushionless  fowl  that  canna  feather  its  nest  in  five 
years.' 


CHAPTER 


PLANS. 

0  pusillanimous  heart,  be  comforted, 

And,  like  a  cheerful  traveller,  take  the  road, 

Singing  beside  the  hedge. 

E.  B.  BROWNING. 

ADY  AILSA  took  Sheila  up  to  the  drawing-room, 
and  locked  the  door  from  within.       Sitting   down 
on  a  couch,  she  drew  the  poor  sobbing  child  to  her 
side,  and  let  her  cry  until  calmness  came  of  its 
own  accord. 

*  There  now,  Sheila,  you  are  better  now,'  she  said  brightly. 
'  A  pretty  way,  young  lady,  to  receive  the  announcement  that 
you  are  a  great  heiress.' 

'  Aunt  Ailsa,  never,  never  say  that  again,'  said  Sheila  quickly. 
'  I  am  not  a  great  heiress.  Did  you  not  hear  me  giving  it  all 
up  to  poor  Fergus  ?  ' 

'Yes,  I  heard  and  loved  you  for  it,  my  darling.  There 
was  hardly  a  dry  eye  in  the  room.  Fergus  himself  will 
never  forget  it,  or  I  am  mistaken  in  him.  But,  Sheila,  listen 
to  me.' 

*  Yes,  Aunt  Ailsa.' 

*  You  can  no  more  set  aside  your  father's  will  than — than — 
any  one  else,'  said   Lady   Ailsa,  not  caring  to  mention  Ellen 

Macleod's   name.      'You    must    be    Lady    of    Dalmore    and 

no 


PLANS.  211 

Findowie,  whether  you  will  or  no.  Cheer  up,  my  darling,  it  is 
not  a  thing  to  break  your  heart  about,  I  am  sure.' 

'  But  Fergus,  Aunt  Ailsa  ?  ' 

'My  dear,  Fergus  will  be  the  very  last  to  grudge  you  your 
good'fortune.  I  saw  it  in  his  eye.  He  is  not  his  mother's  son 
in  that,  Sheila.  And  then,  who  knows,  you  may  make  it  up 
to  him  some  day.' 

'If  I  can,  I  will,  Aunt  Ailsa,'  said  the  girl,  grown  much 
more  composed,  but  still  looking  as  if  the  thing  weighed  upon 
her  heart.  'Just  at  the  last  papa  spoke  of  Fergus,  and  I 
thought  he  said  something  about  a  will.  Perhaps  he  regretted 
he  had  not  made  it  different.  Aunt  Ailsa,  it  is  not  fair  that  I 
should  have  Dalmore,  you  know ;  though  he  called  me  his 
daughter,  I  was  not  really  that.' 

'You  gave  him  a  daughter's  duty  and  love,  Sheila.  My 
child,  I  assure  you  there  is  nothing  to  make  yourself  miserable 
about,'  said  Lady  Ailsa.  'You  are  old  enough  to  understand 
things  now,  and  when  I  tell  you  that  Fergus  has  been  pun- 
ished for  his  mother's  sake,  you  will  know  quite  well  it  is  true. 
She  was  very  unkind  to  your  poor  papa  once  when  she  had  no 
cause.' 

'  Poor  Fergus ! '  repeated  Sheila,  her  heart  aching  for  her 
old  friend  and  playmate.  It  seemed  to  her  a  far  greater 
sorrow  to  him  to  have  such  a  mother  than  to  have  lost 
Dalmore. 

'Aunt  Ailsa,  wasn't  it  curious  that  papa  mentioned  in  his 
will  that  Mr.  M'Bean  must  stay  on  ? '  said  Sheila  musingly. 

'  Yes,  that  is  a  pity ;  but  we  can  see  about  that  after- 
wards.' 

'  If  I  had  known  this  morning,  when  I  met  the  people  from 
the  Fauld  at  Ballinreich,  I  should  have  asked  them  to  go  back,' 
said  Sheila,  a  new  thought  striking  her. 

'  Ay,  very  soon  you  will  begin  to  exercise  your  privileges, 
Sheila,'  said  Lady  Ailsa,  with  a  smile.  '  We  women  are  very 
fond  of  the  sweets  of  power.  But  I  must  go  and  see  what  your 
uncle  is  about ;  he  will  be  chafing  to  get  away.  I  suppose  we 
must  leave  you  behind  ? ' 

*  In  this  house  alone,  Aunt  Ailsa.  I  should  die? 


212  SHEILA. 

1  Then  will  you  go  down  to  Murrayshangh  to-night  ? ' 

'  If  you  will  take  me.' 

'  Of  course  I  will.  I  saw  Alastair's  face  fall  in  the  library 
once  or  twice.  I  fancied  he  thought  this  momentous  day 
would  make  a  serious  change  in  his  cousin.  These  boys  adore 
you,  Sheila,  stupid  fellows  1  but  they  never  had  a  sister.  Shall 
we  go  down  now,  then  ? ' 

'  Do  you  think  she  will  be  away  ? '  asked  Sheila  fearfully, 
now  beginning  to  tremble  again.  Ellen  Macleod  had  filled  the 
child's  heart  with  terror  six  years  before,  and  had  renewed  it 
that  day. 

'Yes,  yes.  She  will  never  stay;  she  knows  the  worst.  I 
fancy  Ellen  Macleod  will  never  be  in  Dalmore  again  unless 
some  unlooked-for  transformation  takes  place,'  said  Lady  Ailsa 
hastily.  '  You  must  be  a  brave  little  woman  now,  Sheila ; 
remember,  you  have  a  position  to  uphold.' 

Sheila  sighed  and  shook  her  head.  Her  aunt  thought  how 
frail  and  slender  she  looked  in  her  mourning,  and  how  pale 
and  even  careworn  her  sweet  face.  She  was  very  young  to 
have  such  a  responsibility  laid  upon  her  shoulders.  Looking 
forward,  Lady  Ailsa  could  foresee  nothing  but  greater  care,  and 
again  wished  passionately  that  Graham  Macdonald  had  given 
back  Sheila  penniless  as  he  had  received  her  from  the  Murrays. 

She  unlocked  the  drawing-room  door,  and  they  went  down- 
stairs together  again.  The  sound  of  voices  guided  them  to 
the  library;  but,  before  letting  Sheila  enter,  Lady  Ailsa  took 
the  precaution  to  look  in  and  make  sure  that  Ellen  Macleod 
had  gone.  In  the  far  window,  Sir  Douglas,  Mr.  Macf'arlane, 
and  Mr.  Colquhoun  were  talking  together  over  the  will. 
Alastair,  after  parting  with  Fergus,  had  sauntered  round  to 
the  stables.  Ellen  Macleod  had  already  crossed  the  Girron 
Brig  on  her  way  back  to  Shonnen  Lodge,  to  which  she  A\as 
condemned  for  the  rest  of  her  life.  We  will  not  seek  to  follow 
her  there,  nor  to  analyze  her  thoughts.  They  were  as  dark 
as  the  depths  of  the  loch  made  drumlie  by  a  spate  in  winter. 
But  she  was  to  be  pitied  too. 

'  Well,  young  lady  ? '  said  Sir  Douglas,  turning  kindly  to 
Sheila  when  they  entered  the  room.  '  I  shouldn't  have  dared 


PLANS.  213 

to  call  you  a  perfect  nuisance  the  other  morning  had  I  known 
what  was  in  prospect  for  you.' 

'  Don't,  Uncle  Douglas,'  said  Sheila,  trying  bravely  to  smile, 
but  making  rather  a  failure  of  it.  '  Where  is  Alastair  ?  ' 

'Oh,  among  the  horses,  likely.     He  went  out  nfter  Fergus.' 

Sheila's  face  brightened.  She  was  very  fond  of  Alastair, 
though  he  teased  her  unmercifully,  and  she  knew  he  would 
cheer  up  poor  Fergus.  Had  she  only  seen  poor  Fergus  then, 
toiling  up  the  rocky  brow  of  Crom  Creagh,  with  a  dark  cloud 
on  his  face,  her  heart  would  have  sunk  within  her.  She  did 
hear  about  that  lonely  vigil,  but  that  was  long  after,  when 
memory  scarcely  had  a  sting.  In  the  meantime  she  was  spared 
the  full  knowledge  of  her  old  friend's  suffering. 

'  When  are  we  to  go  home,  then  ? '  asked  Sir  Douglas, 
turning  to  his  wife.  'I  have  offered  Mr.  Colquhoun  a  drive, 
but  unless  we  can  start  within  an  hour  it  will  be  of  no  use 
to  him.' 

'I  daresay  we  can  be  ready,  Sheila  and  I,'  returned  Lady 
Ailsa.  'She  will  go  down  with  us  to-night;  we  can  easily 
come  up  when  there  is  any  need.' 

Sir  Douglas  nodded,  and  the  ladies  again  left  the  room. 
While  Sheila  went  up  to  prepare,  Lady  Ailsa  rang  the  house- 
keeper's bell,  and  waited  for  her  in  the  hall. 

'  Come  in  here,  Mrs.  Cameron,'  she  said,  when  the  house- 
keeper appeared,  and,  opening  the  dining-room  door,  motioned 
her  to  enter. 

'  The  Laird's  will  has  just  been  read,  Mrs.  Cameron,'  said 
Lady  Ailsa  at  once.  '  I  think  it  right  to  acquaint  you  with 
the  contents.  Miss  Sheila  has  been  left  Lady  of  Dalmore.' 

'  God  bless  the  poor  dear  bairn,'  said  Cameron,  through  her 
tears. 

'  She  is  greatly  upset.  I  am  afraid  the  thought  is  more  a 
grief  than  a  joy  to  her  at  present.  We  will  take  her  away 
with  us  to-night.  Don't  you  think  that  will  be  best  ? ' 

'  Yes,  my  lady ;  it  would  be  terribly  lonesome  for  her  here,' 
said  Cameron.  '  Pardon  the  question,  Lady  Ailsa,  but  is  there 
anything  for  Mr.  Fergus  Macleod  ?  ' 

'  A  thousand  pounds.     Tt  is  an  unspeakable  regret  to  us  all 


214  SHEILA. 

that  he  is  not  now  Laird  of  Dalmore,'  said  Lady  Ailsa,  speaking 
out  quite  frankly  to  the  faithful  servant.  '  I  did  what  I  could 
to  persuade  the  Laird.  I  fear,  Cameron,  that  the  innocent 
often  suffer  for  the  guilty  in  this  world.' 

'  What  did  she  say  ?  Did  she  hear  it  read,  my  lady  ?  '  asked 
Cameron,  with  an  eagerness  she  could  not  repress. 

'  Yes ;  but  what  she  said  is  not  worth  repetition,  Cameron,' 
returned  Lady  Ailsa  quietly.  '  I  am  truly  sorry  for  her 
boy.' 

'  And  I,  my  lady,  for  oh,  he  has  a  true  heart ! '  said  the 
housekeeper,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  thereupon  recounted 
to  Lady  Ailsa  what  had  happened  on  the  day  of  Mrs.  Mac- 
donald's  death,  six  years  before. 

'  This  will  be  a  sore  blow  to  him,  my  lady,  for  he  worships 
the  very  stones  that  lie  about  Dalmore.  But  it  is  a  great 
joy  to  us  to  have  such  a  sweet  young  lady  as  Miss  Sheila 
over  us.' 

'  She  will  be  a  gentle  mistress,  Cameron,  and  she  will  win 
the  service  of  love,'  said  Lady  Ailsa,  with  a  smile.  '  I  need  not 
ask  you  to  look  faithfully  to  the  house  for  her  sake.  She  has 
not  much  interest  in  it  just  yet,  but  it  will  soon  awaken.  Let 
everything  go  on  quietly  as  before,  and  you  will  hear  from  me 
from  time  to  time.  I  do  not  expect  that  Sheila  will  stay  very 
long  at  Murrayshaugh.' 

'  Will  she  not  go  back  to  school,  my  lady  ? ' 

'  I  think  not.  She  is  really  very  highly  accomplished  for  her 
years.  We  cannot  lay  any  plans  in  the  meantime,  however, 
but  we  will  let  you  know  of  any  arrangements  in  good  time.' 

'My  lady,  do  you  think  Mrs.  Macleod  will  come  over?'  asked 
the  housekeeper  hesitatingly. 

'  I  do  not  think  so,  but  if  she  does  you  must  be  very  firm. 
She  has  no  right  in  the  house  now.  She  has  forfeited  it  by 
her  own  actions.  Say  you  have  your  orders  to  admit  no  one 
without  permission  from  your  mistress,  Miss  Murray  Mac- 
donald.' 

'  Very  well,  my  lady,'  said  Cameron,  with  evident  relief. 

'  Oh,  Cameron,  am  I  not  forgetting  a  very  important  part  oi 
to-day's  proceedings  !  Mr.  Macdonald  has  left  you  two  hundred 


PLANS.  215 

pounds  for  your  faithful  service,  and  I  am  sure  you  deserve  it. 
I  congratulate  you  with  all  my  heart.' 

'  No,  no ;  I  only  did  my  duty  for  my  dear  lady's  sake,  and 
he  was  a  good  master  too,'  said  Cameron  hastily.  '  I  have 
never  had  so  good  a  place,  nor  people  I  loved  so  well.  I  hope 
to  live  and  die  in  Dalmore.' 

'  If  you  do,  I  hope  you  will  see  some  happy  changes  to  atone 
for  the  sorrows  you  have  seen  in  Dalmore,'  said  Lady  Ailsa, 
and  shook  hands  with  the  faithful  servant  as  she  turned 
to  go. 

From  that  time,  if  not  before,  Jane  Cameron  would  have  laid 
down  her  life  for  Dalmore  and  its  sweet  mistress.  She  felt 
that  an  absolute  trust  was  reposed  in  her,  and  that  calls  out 
whatever  is  noble  in  the  nature  of  gentle  or  simple. 

Within  the  hour  the  carriage  rolled  away  from  Dalmore. 
Fergus  saw  it  cross  the  Girron  Brig,  but,  as  it  was  half  closed, 
he  did  not  know  Sheila  was  within.  Just  after  sundown  he 
rose  and  took  his  way  down,  not  straight  to  the  house,  but  by 
a  slanting  sheep-track  which  brought  him  out  at  Corrymuckloch 
Inn.  Then  he  went  over  the  hill-road  to  Achnafauld.  Any- 
where, anywhere,  rather  than  back  to  Shonnen.  God  help  the 
lad!  he  had  a  home  which  was  no  home;  and  his  heart  was 
hungry  within  him  for  the  love  which  blessed  the  lives  of 
others.  When  Alastair  Murray  had  talked  of  his  mother,  with 
a  kind  of  disrespectful  tenderness  which  was  true  honour,  as 
'  the  dear  old  mater,'  Fergus  had  listened  with  a  kind  of  vague, 
yearning  envy.  His  mother  was  a  shadow  on  his  life  ;  and  yet 
he  loved  her  too,  though  not  as  he  would  and  could  have,  if  she 
had  allowed  him.  The  grey  night-shadows  were  falling  about 
Shian  and  the  head  of  the  loch  when  he  reached  the  brow  of 
the  hill  and  saw  the  Gleu  before  him  once  more.  The  sky  was 
soft  and  tender,  dappled  with  rose-fringed  clouds,  with  here 
and  there  a  bright  star  peeping  out  like  gleams  of  heavenly 
promise.  The  air  was  full  of  peace,  and  laden  with  vague,  subtle 
odours  suggestive  of  bursting  bud  and  blade  in  some  wood. 
In  the  distance  a  cuckoo  was  calling  sweetly  to  his  mate, 
and  the  mountain  burns  were  dancing  merrily  in  their  rocky 
beds ;  making  that  pleasant,  gurgling  murmur  which  is  some- 


216  SHEILA. 

times  the  only  sound  to  break  the  solemn  solitudes  of  the  hills. 
It  was  a  fair  world.  The  lad's  heart  filled  again  at  sight  of  the 
familiar  strath,  and  at  thought  of  the  quiet  grave  at  Shian,  and 
of  the  exiles  on  the  bosom  of  the  broad  Atlantic.  In  his  loneli- 
ness and  heart-break  something  prompted  him  to  go  to  Rob 
Macnaughton,  who  always  understood  him,  and  would  sympa- 
thize with  him,  he  knew.  Before  he  turned  into  the  main  road 
he  took  a  long  survey  right  along  to  Auchloy,  lest  any  of  the 
M'Beans  should  be  coming  on  horseback  or  afoot.  He  could 
not  have  borne  to  meet  them  then.  But  there  was  not  a  living 
thing  to  be  seen  but  two  or  three  cows  wandering  about  the 
roadside  seeking  a  bite  of  young  grass.  He  quickened  his  pace, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  crossed  the  burn,  regardless  of  wetting 
his  feet,  and  lifted  the  sneck  of  Rob's  door.  The  loom  was 
busy,  he  heard  the  click,  click,  of  the  needles  as  he  entered ; 
but  Rob  heard  him,  and,  coming  off  his  stool,  joined  him  in  the 
kitchen. 

'Weel,  lad?' 

4  Put  the  bolt  in  the  door,  Rob,  quick,'  said  Fergus. 

Rob  did  so,  taking  his  time  over  it,  and  then  carried  the 
lamp  from  the  shop  into  the  kitchen.  After  he  had  set  it  upon 
the  table,  he  turned  his  keen  eye  full  on  the  lad's  face.  He 
had  thrown  himself  on  a  creepie  by  the  hearthstone,  and  was 
1  glowerin' '  at  the  smouldering  peats,  as  if  he  had  interest  in 
nothing  else. 

4  Ye're  a  stranger,  Maister  Fergus,'  said  Rob  slowly,  and, 
reaching  to  the  peat  fire,  he  laid  on  some  more  fuel,  though  the 
night  was  close  and  warm.  '  Maybe,  though,'  he  added  slowly, 
'  it's  the  Laird  I'm  speakin'  till  ? ' 

4  No,  Rob,  it's  not  the  Laird,'  said  Fergus,  with  a  strange, 
slow,  flickering  smile. 

'Aweel,  if  it's  no'  the  Laird,  he  hasna  the  Laird's  cares  to 
haud  him  doon,  and  they're  no*  sma'  in  they  times.'  said  Rob 
cheerily,  as  he  gave  the  peats  a  bit  stir  with  his  foot.  He  was 
keenly  watching  the  face  of  Fergus  all  the  while.  He  saw  that 
the  lad  was  sore  vexed  about  something,  and  that  in  a  minute 
it  would  all  come  out.  He  had  a  quick,  warm,  sympathetic 
heart,  this  rough,  morose  stocking-weaver,  because  he  had  the 


PLANS. 


117 


poet's  soul.  He  was  never  rough,  never  morose,  never  any- 
thing but  genial  and  happy-hearted  with  these  two  young 
creatures,  Fergus  and  Sheila,  because  he  loved  them,  and  they 
loved  him.  He  went  away  back  to  the  shop  after  a  moment, 
pretending  to  look  for  his  spectacles,  and  as  he  crossed  the  little 
passage  between  the  two  places  he  heard  a  sob  break  from  the 
boy's  lips.  It  was  the  first  wave  of  the  tempest.  The  pent 
spirit  and  aching  heart  found  relief  that  night,  ay,  and  comfort 
too,  before  Fergus  Macleod  left  Bob  Macnaughton's  fireside. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 


THE   AWAKENING. 

Twixt  summer  and  her  soul  there  seems  to  run 
A  power  to  feel  together. 

J.  B.  SELKIRK. 

HEILA,  Miss  Gordon  has  come  home  to  the  manse. 
She  is  not  strong,  her  father  tells  me,  and  has  been 
obliged  to  give  up  her  situation  in  Doncaster.     I 
am  going  in  to   Logie-Murray  this  afternoon   to 
see  her.* 

'  May  I  go  with  you,  Aunt  Ailsa  ? 

'  I  was  just  going  to  ask  you,  my  dear.  You  are  moping  too 
much.  You  will  enjoy  the  drive.' 

*  Oh,  Aunt  Ailsa,  I  don't  mope.  I  am  very  happy  here,'  said 
Sheila  quickly,  but  Aunt  Ailsa  only  shook  her  head.  She  was 
concerned  about  Sheila.  It  was  more  than  two  months  since 
Macdonald's  death,  and  Sheila  had  been  at  Murrayshaugh  all 
the  time.  She  had  never  expressed  any  desire  to  return  to  Dai- 
more,  even  for  a  day,  nor  had  she  ever  voluntarily  spoken  of  the 
place  or  of  her  special  interest  in  it.  Murrayshaugh  was  very 
quiet  during  the  summer  months — Alastair  in  Edinburgh,  and 
the  other  lads  at  Trinity  College  in  Glenalmond.  But  for 
Sheila  Murrayshaugh  had  been  a  childless  house,  only  she  was 
more  of  a  woman  now  than  a  child.  She  had  given  up  childish 
pursuits,  and  even  when  the  lads  would  come  over  from  Glen- 


THE  A  WAKENING.  2  1 9 

almond  sometimes  to  spend  Saturday,  she  did  not  care  to  share 
their  romps  as  of  yore.  She  had  grown  very  quiet  and 
womanly  in  her  ways,  and  would  sew  and  knit  for  her  aunt's 
poor  folk  in  Logie-Murray,  or  pore  over  her  lesson-books, 
laboriously  keeping  up  her  German  and  French  by  reading  the 
literature  of  those  countries.  Or  she  would  go  out  for  hours 
by  herself  with  her  sketching  materials,  and  in  the  evenings 
practise  her  music,  which,  however,  was  not  a  task,  but  a 
labour  of  perfect  love.  Sheila  was  a  born  musician.  Alto- 
gether, in  her  sixteenth  year,  Sheila  was  a  model  young  lady, 
but  Aunt  Ail^a  would  rather  have  had  the  Sheila  of  old,  who 
tore  her  frocks  climbing  trees  and  fences,  and  wet  her  feet 
'gumping'  with  her  cousins  in  the  burns.  The  boys  had  lost 
their  chum,  and  Murrayshaugh  its  merry  -  hearted  maiden. 
Lady  Ailsa  saw  that  the  inheritance  was  weighing  on  the 
child's  shoulders,  and  she  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  her, 
or  how  to  act.  Sometimes  she  remonstrated  with  her  for 
sitting  so  closely  over  her  books,  then  Sheila  would  say,  with  a 
little  half  sad,  wholly  pathetic  smile, — 

'  Aunt  Ailsa,  I  have  such  a  lot  to  learn.' 

And  once,  when  Lady  Ailsa  had  come  upon  her  in  the  library 
poring  over  one  of  Sir  Douglas's  huge  volumes  on  estate 
management,  she  had  gone  to  her  own  room  to  have  a  good 
cry.  She  felt  almost  angry  with  the  dead  for  leaving  such  an 
incubus  on  the  young  shoulders  of  the  living. 

Murrayshaugh  was  a  sweet  spot, — a  low,  large,  commodious 
house,  nestling  among  trees  on  the  low  ground  beside  the 
Logie,  which  watered  the  beautiful  policies.  In  the  early 
months  of  summer,  when  the  trees  wore  their  freshest  garb, 
its  sylvan  loveliness  could  not  be  surpassed.  But  Sheila  felt 
shut  in  sometimes,  and  fancied  it  was  difficult  to  breathe  in  the 
close  sheltered  air  among  the  woods  and  waters.  She  loved 
the  heights,  the  bare,  grand  solitudes,  where  nothing  but  the 
heather  grew.  Dalmore  was  her  ideal,  and  yet  she  did  not 
seek  to  return  to  it,  her  own  home,  an  inheritance  which 
nobody  could  take  away  from  her.  The  time  had  not  come 
yet,  but  it  was  at  hand.  These  quiet  days  at  Murrayshaugh 
seemed  a  kind  of  preparation  for  a  coming  change.  I  think 


220  SHEILA. 

Lady  Ailsa,  who  loved  the  bairn  with  a  mother's  love,  felt 
by  and  by  that  thought  was  maturing  towards  action,  and  so 
left  her  in  peace. 

After  luncheon  that  afternoon,  Sheila  and  her  aunt  set  out 
in  Lady  Ailsa's  pony  carriage  to  drive  through  the  leafy  roads 
to  the  village.  Sheila  took  the  reins,  and  as  Lady  Ailsa  leaned 
back  among  her  comfortable  cushions  and  looked  at  the  straight, 
lithe  young  figure,  and  the  clear-cut,  sweet  face,  she  gave  an 
involuntary  sigh. 

'  She'll  make  some  of  the  lads'  hearts  ache  yet ;  and  what 
about  her  own  ?  She  takes  everything  so  terribly  in  earnest.' 

'  Sheila,  my  dear,  do  you  know  you  are  quite  a  woman,'  she 
said  presently,  giving  expression  to  a  part  of  her  thought. 

*  I  feel  very  old,  Aunt  Ailsa,'  said  Sheila  quite  soberly,  and 
Lady  Ailsa  laughed. 

'My  child,  I  am  forty-eight,  and  I  am  certain  I  never 
had  such  a  sober,  careworn  face.  I  could  shake  you,  Sheila, 
positively  shake  you.' 

1  Do  it  then,  auntie,'  said  Sheila,  laughing  too.  '  How  well 
Punch  and  Judy  go  together,  don't  they  ? ' 

4  Yes ;  they  are  very  old  too,  but  they  take  life  easily,  like 
their  mistress.  What  a  pleasant  afternoon  this  is ! ' 

'  Delightful !  We  shall  be  out  of  the  trees  presently,  and 
see  about  us,  Aunt  Ailsa.  I  don't  like  trees  very  much.  They 
make  the  landscape  pretty,  but  they  seem  to  absorb  the  fresh- 
ness of  the  air.' 

'  You  talk  like  a  book,  child.  I  think  Murrayshaugh  the 
loveliest  place  in  the  world.  How  sweet  Logic  is  looking  this 
afternoon.  Look  at  the  sun  striking  the  spire  on  the  kirk. 
Confess  now,  Sheila,  it  is  a  pretty  picture.' 

'  Very,  Aunt  Ailsa.  I  think  I  must  come  to  the  toll  here 
and  sketch  the  kirk,'  said  Sheila;  but  she  was  thinking  of 
another  kirk,  bare,  unlovely,  uncomfortable  within  and  with- 
out, but  which  was  hallowed  to  her  by  many  sweet  memories 
which  time  would  never  dim.  Punch  and  Judy,  accustomed  to 
follow  the  dictates  of  their  own  sweet  wills,  relaxed  their 
steady  trot  presently,  and  began  to  ascend  very  leisurely  the 
gentle  slope  of  the  road. 


THE  A  WAKENING.  2  2  \ 

4  When  did  Miss  Gordon  come  home,  auntie?'  asked  Sheila, 
still  keeping  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  old  kirk,  which  was  bathed 
in  the  warm  yellow  sunlight. 

1  On  Saturday.' 

1  Is  she  very  ill  ?  ' 

4  No,  only  fagged  out  Teaching  in  a  school  is  very  hard 
work,  Sheila.' 

4 1  think  it  must  be.'* 

4 1  am  very  sorry  for  the  minister.  It  is  a  very  difficult 
problem  how  to  rear  and  educate  ten  children  on  a  very  limited 
income.  Harriet's  help  will  be  sadly  missed.' 

Sheila  was  silent.  Her  aunt  wondered  what  sudden  thought 
had  brought  that  luminous  light  to  her  eyes.  There  was  very 
little  said  after  that.  Having  reached  the  crest  of  the  little  hill, 
Punch  and  Judy,  with  one  accord,  trotted  gallantly  down  the 
brae  into  the  village,  up  the  long,  wide,  pictun  sque  street,  and 
drew  up,  with  great  satisfaction  to  themselves,  at  the  white 
gates  of  the  manse.  Sheila  jumped  out,  opened  the  gate,  and 
led  the  ponies  up  the  short,  shady  avenue  to  the  front  door. 
There  was  a  basket  chair  on  the  lawn,  from  which  a  rather 
pale,  delicate-looking  girl  rose  and  came  forward  to  meet  them. 
Her  face  flushed  with  pleasure  at  sight  of  her  old  pupil,  and 
Sheila's  eyes  filled  as  she  kissed  her.  There  was  such  a  change. 

4 1  am  so  sorry  you  are  ill,  dear  Miss  Gordon,'  she  said 
affectionately. 

4  Not  very  ill,  only  tired  out,  Sheila,'  returned  Harriet 
Gordon.  4  How  are  you,  Lady  Ailsa  ?  Will  you  come  up  to 
the  drawing-room.  Mamma  is  lying  down  in  the  study,  I 
think.  The  heat  tries  her.' 

4  Don't  disturb  her,  then,  on  any  account.  It  is  you  we  have 
come  to  see,  Harriet,'  said  Lady  Ailsa  kindly.  4  Well,  perhaps 
we  had  better  go  in ;  it  is  so  sunny  here.' 

4  It  is  never  too  sunny  for  me,  Lady  Ailsa,'  said  the  minister's 
daughter.  4The  spring  winds  in  Doncaster  shrivelled  me  up.' 

She  led  the  way  into  the  manse,  and  up  to  the  shabby  but 
home-like  drawing-room,  in  which  everything  was  for  use  and 
comfort  and  very  little  foi  ornament.  Sheila  thought  it  a  very 
pleasant  room. 


222  SHEILA. 

Then  the  minister  himself  came  up,  a  fine-looking  man,  with 
a  benevolent  face  somewhat  marked  with  the  lines  of  care.  As 
Lady  Ailsa  had  said,  the  upbringing  of  a  large  family  on  small 
means  was  a  problem  he  was  daily  finding  it  more  difficult  to 
solve.  Harriet's  breakdown  was  a  serious  matter  more  ways 
than  one.  Her  post  as  head  mistress  of  the  High  School  for 
Girls  at  Doncaster  was  very  lucrative,  but  the  strain  had  proved 
too  much.  She  was  unfeignedly  glad  to  see  her  old  pupil,  with 
whom  she  had  lived  so  happily  for  four  years.  But  she  Avas 
amazed  to  find  her  so  changed.  She  had  left  her  a  careless, 
happy-hearted  girl,  and  now  found  her  a  woman,  with  a 
woman's  care  and  forethought. 

'May  I  come  and  see  you  again  to-morrow,  Miss  Gordon?' 
Sheila  asked,  when  she  saw  her  aunt  preparing  to  go,  after  a 
short  stay. 

4  Surely ;  come  every  day,  dear  Sheila.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  to 
make  a  new  acquaintance  with  you.  Do  you  remember  our 
happy  days  at  Dalmore  ? ' 

Sheila  flushed  up  quickly,  but  made  no  reply.  Harriet 
Gordon  could  not  but  wonder  why  she  was  so  sensitive  about 
Dalmore. 

'Aunt  Ailsa,  Mr.  Gordon  is  not  a  very  rich  man,  is  he?' 
asked  Sheila,  as  they  drove  away  from  the  manse  gate. 

'Not  rich  at  all,  my  dear,  quite  poor,  and  ten  children.  0 
dear  me,  I  am  so  sorry  for  them !  I  see  Harriet  feels  dread- 
fully having  to  come  home,  and  these  three  boys  at  college  are 
a  dreadful  drain  upon  poor  Mr.  Gordon's  purse.' 

'Aunt  Ailsa,  why  are  so  many  nice  people  poor  and 
unhappy  ? ' 

'  They  may  be  poor  at  the  manse,  but  they  are  not  unhappy, 
Sheila — far  from  it.  I  never  saw  a  more  united  and  affection- 
ate family.  You  must  not  run  away  with  the  idea  that  only 
rich  people  are  happy.  It  is  quite  the  reverse.' 

'  Oh,  Aunt  Ailsa,  I  know  that,'  said  Sheila,  in  a  low  voice, 
and  then  a  little  silence  fell  upon  them. 

'Are  you  not  tired  having  me  at  Murrayshaugh,  auntie?' 
asked  Sheila,  after  a  while. 

'  Just  listen  to  that  lark.     I  am  sure  he  will  strain  his  dear 


THE  AWAKENING.  223 

little  throat,'  said  Aunt  Ailsa  mischievously,  pointing  with  her 
parasol  up  to  the  blue  expanse,  where  a  lark  was  trilling  his 
sweet,  noisy  song  with  all  his  might. 

Sheila  smiled. 

'You  are  very  naughty  to  laugh  at  me,  Aunt  Ailsa,  when 
I  am  so  sober.  I  want  to  talk  very  much  in  earnest  to 
you.' 

'  Won't  you  talk  very  much  in  fun,  just  for  a  change?  You 
are  far  too  solemn  and  sober,  Sheila;  and  I  am  going  to  be 
very  angry  with  you  from  to- day.' 

*  You  couldn't  be  angry  if  you  tried,  Aunt  Ailsa,'  said  Sheila 
quietly,  and  was  silent  again  for  a  little,  keeping  her  eyes  on 
the  ponies'  tossing  heads. 

'Aunt  Ailsa,' — Sheila  dropped  the  reins  and  looked  quite 
round  into  her  aunt's  face, — '  I — I — think  it  is  time  for  me  to 
go  back  to  Dalmore.' 

'  Yes,  my  dear ;  I  have  been  waiting  for  it.' 

'J — I  think  that  perhaps  papa  would  not  like  me  to  stay 
away  so  long,'  said  Sheila,  with  a  pathetic  tremble  in  her  voice. 
'  It  is  as  if  I  did  not  like  it,  and  oh,  I  do,  Aunt  Ailsa — better 
than  any  place  in  the  world ! ' 

'  Yes,  my  dear,  I  understand.' 

'  I  have  been  thinking  such  a  great  deal,  Aunt  Ailsa,  often 
till  my  head  ached  dreadfully,  trying  to  make  up  my  mind 
what  to  do.  I  have  been  reading  in  Uncle  Douglas's  books.' 

'  Don't  I  know  it  ?  I  saw  you  one  day,  and  could  have 
whipped  you,  Sheila.' 

'  I  have  been  reading  all  about  wills  and  everything.' 

'What  for?  Your  will  was  right  enough,  Sheila.  Nothing 
will  set  it  aside.' 

'  I  know,'  said  Sheila,  with  a  little  sigh,  '  and  I  can't  give  it 
up  either.  It  would  not  be  right.  But,  Aunt  Ailsa,  I  think 
papa  was  sorry  after  about  Fergus.  Just  think  if  he  meant  at 
the  end  to  give  him  Dalmore,  but  could  not  make  us  under- 
stand. Wouldn't  it  be  dreadful?  "* 

'  Sheila,  it  is  very  wrong  of  you  to  say  such  things.  If  you 
brood  over  this,  you  may  do  yourself  serious  injury.' 

'  O   no,  I   won't.     When  I   go   to   Dalmore,   auntie,   I   am 


224  SHEILA. 

going  to  look  everywhere  to  see  if  there  is  any  other  will. 
Papa  said  something  about  it.' 

Lady  Ailsa  listened  in  vexed  silence.  She  saw  that  the  girl 
was  the  slave  of  an  idea  which  would  cause  her  great  trouble 
and  anxiety  if  she  brooded  upon  it. 

1  You  may  look,  dear,  to  satisfy  yourself,  but  I  am  quite  sure 
you  will  never  find  what  you  seek.  Now  that  it  is  all  over, 
would  it  not  be  much  better  to  try  and  be  worthy  of  your 
inheritance,  and  do  your  duty  as  its  mistress,  than  to  make 
yourself  and  others  miserable  with  these  ideas?  Sheila,  it  is 
not  right.* 

'Perhaps  not,  Aunt  Ailsa,  but  I  can't  feel  right  about  it 
Dalmore  ought  to  belong  to  Fergus.  I  will  never  forget  that.' 

'  It  may  be  his  some  day  if  you  give  it  to  him,  Sheila,'  said 
Aunt  Ailsa,  with  a  smile,  but  Sheila  did  not  understand,  and 
took  the  words  in  their  literal  sense. 

'Perhaps  he  may  take  it  some  day,'  she  said  hopefully. 
'  Aunt  Ailsa,  do  you  think  Miss  Gordon  would  come  back  to 
Dalmore  with  me?  I  have  to  learn  some  things  yet.  Then 
she  could  help  them  at  home,  and  get  strong  herself  at  Dal- 
more.' 

Aunt  Ailsa  took  the  girl's  grave,  sweet  face  in  her  hands 
and  kissed  it  tenderly. 

'  God  bless  you,  my  darling,  for  ever  and  ever.  I  gee  you 
are  to  be  a  blessing  to  Dalmore,' 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


HOME. 

Na«  birdie  sweeter  sings, 

In  a'  the  warl'  wide, 
Than  the  lintie  'mong  the  whins 

On  our  ain  hill-side. 

SADO, 

OOD-BYE,  then,  Sheila.  I  shall  come  up  some  fine 
day  soon,  and  see  how  you  are  getting  on,1  said 
Lady  Ailsa.  '  Harriet  Gordon,  see  that  she  is  kept 
in  occupation.  I  leave  her  in  your  care.' 
'  I  will  look  after  her,  Lady  Ailsa,'  said  Harriet  Gordon, 
looking  at  Sheila  with  all  her  heart  in  her  eyes.  No  need  to 
say  how  readily  the  kind  offer  had  been  accepted  at  the  manse. 
Once  more  care  was  lifted  from  the  minister's  heart.  The 
perfect  rest,  the  fine,  pure,  bracing  air,  and  the  plentiful  table 
at  Dalmore  would  do  more  for  his  ailing  daughter  than  even 
the  mother's  care  at  home.  With  ten  mouths  to  fill  every  day, 
it  is  no  easy  task  to  provide  tempting  dainties,  even  for  one. 

So  the  carriage  rolled  away  from  Murrayshaugh,  and  along 
the  smooth,  wide  road  to  Dunkeld,  which  was  looking  its 
loveliest  that  sunny  June  day. 

Sheila  hud  not  much  to  say  while  they  drove;  but  though 
her  tongue  was  silent  her  eyes  were  busy,  and  when  they  passed 
by  the  richly- wooded  low  grounds,  and  turned  up  Strathbraan, 


226  SHEILA. 

Harriet  Gordon  saw  her  look  eagerly  from  side  to  side,  noting 
each  familiar  landmark  with  loving  interest  and  pride. 

It  was  a  long  drive,  and  Harriet  was  a  little  tired  before  they 
reached  Amulree. 

*  Oh,  Miss  Gordon !  just  look  at  Dalihore  with  the  sun  on  it. 
Isn't  it   lovely?'    Sheila  cried,  when  they  reached  the  top  of 
Ballinreich  Brae,  and  saw  the  whole  face  of  Crom  Creagh,  with 
the  old  house  lying  snugly  in  its  bosom,  sheltered  by  dark  pines, 
and  waving,  graceful  birches.     The  sun  was  flashing  in  every 
window,  and  from  the  tower  the  flag  was  waving  for  the  first 
time  since  it  had  been  lowered  at  its  master's  death. 

'That  is  to  welcome  you,  Sheila.  They  are  glad  their  young 
lady  is  coming  home,'  said  Miss  Gordon,  with  a  pleased  smile. 

Sheila's  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  It  would  be  but  a  sorry 
welcome  after  all,  returning  to  an  empty  house,  which  was 
peopled  only  by  memories  and  the  shadowy  forms  of  those  who 
'  were  not.'  But  the  few  servants  in  charge  of  the  place  had 
all  gathered  about  the  door,  and  Cameron,  wearing  a  stiff  black 
silk  gown  and  her  best  lace  cap,  came  forward  with  a  smile  and 
a  tear  to  bid  her  young  mistress  welcome  home.  Sheila  looked 
from  one  to  another  somewhat  mournfully,  and  replied  to  their 
greetings  in  a  low,  quiet  voice.  It  made  the  bairn  feel  her 
responsibility  yet  more  when  she  saw  them  standing  so  respect- 
fully before  her — her  own  servants !  She  was  very  young  to  be 
mistress  to  anybody,  and  they  saw  what  was  her  unuttered 
thought,  and  every  heart  was  sore  for  her. 

*  Tea  is  in  the  drawing-room,  Miss  Sheila,'  said  Mrs.  Cameron. 
'  Let  me  help  you,  Miss  Gordon.     You  look  so  white  and  tired.' 

'  She  is  very  tired,  I  am  afraid.  Will  you  be  able  to  come  to 
tea,  Miss  Gordon,  or  will  you  go  and  lie  down  for  a  while  ? ' 
asked  Sheila  kindly. 

'  I  will  just  go  up  to  my  own  room.  I  am  very  sorry  to  be 
so  useless,  dear.  I  hope  1  shall  be  better  soon.' 

'  O  yes,  I  am  sure  you  will.  Take  her  up,  Cameron,  and  I 
will  go  to  the  drawing-room  for  her  tea,'  said  Sheila,  thinking 
of  others'  comfort  before  her  own. 

She  took  up  the  tea,  and  sat  by  her  governess  while  she  drank 
it,  and  then,  drawing  down  the  blind  and  covering  her  up,  she 


HOME.  227 

bade  her  go  to  sleep,  and  ran  downstairs.  The  housekeeper 
was  waiting  about  the  landing,  anxious  to  see  and  speak  with 
her.  She  was  so  glad  to  see  the  bairn  back  to  her  own  home 
again. 

'Do  come  into  the  drawing-room,  while  I  am  having  tea,' 
said  Sheila.  '  I  want  to  hear  all  about  everything.  Oh,  have 
they  had  any  news  from  the  folk  who  left  the  Fauld? ' 

'  Yes,  Miss  Sheila ;  about  a  week  ago,  Rob  Macnaughton  had  a 
letter  from  the  smith,  and  Ewan  M'Fadyen,  too,  had  one  from 
his  daughter  Annie,  who  married  young  Stewart  of  Turrich. 
You'll  remember  her  ? ' 

' 1  did  not  know  her,  as  she  was  a  servant  with  the  Miss 
Campbells  at  Shian ;  and  did  they  all  get  safe  over  that  dreadful 
sea?' 

*  All  safe;  and  what  do  you  think,  Miss  Sheila?  sailing  on  the 
sea  made  old  Mrs.  Stewart  quite  well,'  said  the   housekeeper, 
delighted  to  see  the  bairn  so  interested ;  '  and  they  are  all  in 
good  spirits,  and  not  a  bit  sorry  they  left  the  Glen.' 

'  I'm  glad  of  that.  I  hope  they  will  get  on  splendidly,'  said 
Sheila  fervently ;  '  and  all  the  other  folks  are  quite  well  ?  Do 
you  ever  see  Katie  Menzies  ? ' 

1  Only  on  Sundays  at  the  kirk,  Miss  Sheila.  A  bonnie, 
bonnie  lassie  Katie  has  grown.  I  hope  she'll  have  grace  to 
guide  her.  I'm  whiles  hearing  what  I  dinna  like ; — but  let  that 
pass.' 

'  And  Malcolm,  who  is  so  droll.     How  is  Malcolm  ? ' 

*  Just  as  he  was.     What  a  size  he  has  grown  1  six  feet  in  his 
stockings,  if  he  is  an  inch,  Miss  Sheila,  I  am  sure.     And  the 
auld  wife  is  as  thrawn  as  ever.' 

'  Oh,  I  must  go  down  and  see  them  all,  now  I  have  come.' 

'  You  are  going  to  bide,  then  ? '  asked  Mrs.  Cameron 
anxiously. 

'  Yes,  I  think  so,'  said  Sheila,  growing  a  little  pale.  '  You  will 
be  very  kind  to  poor  Miss  Gordon,  Cameron,  and  give  her  all 
she  needs  ?  I  want  her  to  grow  very  strong  in  Dalmore.' 

'I'll  do  all  I  oan,  for  she's  a  sweet  young  lady,  and  fine 
company  she'll  be  for  you,'  said  Cameron  heartily.  '  Oh,  Miss 
Sheila,  it's  fell  proud  I  am  that  ye  are  come  home  to  your  own. 


228  SHEILA. 

It's  been  but  a  dull  house  all  the  summer  through  without  a 
head.' 

'  Am  I  the  head,  Cameron  ? '  asked  Sheila,  with  a  pathetic 
little  smile ;  then,  quite  suddenly,  showing  the  current  of  her 
thoughts,  she  added,  '  Fergus  is  not  at  Shonnen,  is  he?' 

'  No,  Miss  Sheila ;  but  he  will  be  in  three  weeks'  time,  Jessie 
Mackenzie  was  telling  me  yesterday.  He  is  doing  something 
splendid  at  the  college.' 

'  He  is  very  clever.  Of  course  he  would  do  splendidly/  said 
Sheila  complacently.  'Oh,  Cameron,  don't  you  think  it  would 
have  been  grand  if  Fergus  had  been  Laird  of  Dalmore?  Then, 
how  happy  I  could  have  been  at  Murrayshaugh  ;  Aunt  Ailsa's 
little  girl,  and  nothing  more.' 

'We  are  very  well  pleased  with  our  young  lady,  Miss  Sheila,' 
said  Cameron.  '  There's  not  one  in  all  Strathbraan  or  Glen- 
quaich  but  what  would  say  that.' 

'  Perhaps  not ;  but  all  the  same  he  ought  to  have  had 
it,'  said  Sheila,  with  a  sigh  ;  and  then  she  told  to  the  faithful 
servant  the  few  words  Macdonald  had  said  on  that  dark  day 
he  died,  over  which  Sheila  had  brooded  till  she  made  herself 
ill. 

'  I  want  you  to  help  me  to  look,  Cameron,'  she  said ;  '  if  there 
was  another  will,  and  Dalmore  should  belong  to  Fergus,  how 
dreadful  for  me  to  be  here ! ' 

'Miss  Sheila,'  said  the  housekeeper  somewhat  hesitatingly, 
'  I  want  to  tell  you  something  that  happened  two  nights  before 
the  Laird  died.  Master  Fergus  had  been  up  to  see  him,  and  after 
he  was  away  the  Laird  bade  me  get  him  his  writing  things  out 
of  the  library.  I  gave  them  to  him,  and  when  he  rang  for  me, 
about  half  an  hour  after,  he  had  been  writing  something,  for 
the  ink  was  wet  in  the  pen,  and  he  had  dried  something  on  the 
blotting-pad,  for  it  was  quite  clean  when  I  gave  it  to  him.  But 
he  never  said  anything,  and  there  was  no  sign  of  any  papers 
lying  about' 

1  It  would  be  the  will,  Cameron !  I  knew  there  was  one ! ' 
cried  Sheila  excitedly,  jumping  up.  '  Let  us  go  and  look  every- 
where in  the  library.  Oh,  we  must  find  it !  We  will  find  it,  I 
am  sure.' 


HOME.  229 

Leaving  her  teacup  half  emptied  on  the  table,  Sheila  was  ofi 
downstairs  like  an  arrow.  The  housekeeper  followed  her  as 
quickly  as  she  could,  and  found  her  with  a  drawer  open  in  the 
Laird's  secretaire. 

'  Look  here,  Miss  Sheila,'  said  Cameron.  '  I  put  past  this 
blotting-pad,  I  don't  know  why.  It  has  never  been  used  since 
the  Laird  had  it,  though  Mr.  Colqnhoun  wrote  a  lot  here  after 
the  Laird  died.  Can  you  re;id  it?  ' 

Sheila  leaned  on  the  housekeeper's  shoulder,  and  fixed  her 
eyes  intently  on  the  blotting-pad.  The  characters  were  strange, 
cramped-looking  things,  not  easily  deciphered,  but  she  could 
make  out  quite  clearly  the  name  of  Fergus  Macleod,  and  further 
on,  Dalmore. 

4  Cameron,'  she  said  quite  solemnly,  '  this  is  the  impress  of 
the  will;  let  us  hunt  all  over  the  rooms.  It  can't  be  out  of 
these  few  rooms,  unless  papa  gave  it  to  some  one.' 

'That  he  didn't,  Miss  Sheila,  for  nobody  saw  him  agaia 
till  Lady  Ailsa  came.  Angus  M'Benn  was  here  upon  the 
Thursday,  but  I  had  the  Laird's  orders  not  to  let  him  in, 
and  bonnie  angered  he  was  at  it,  and  gied  me  ill  words 
aboot  it.  But  when  I  have  my  orders  I  can  be  as  firm  as 
the  Bass  Rock.' 

Sheila  never  answered.  Her  hands  and  eyes  were  busy 
among  the  straggling  papers  in  the  drawers,  but,  though  they 
searched  for  an  hour  and  more  in  every  nook  and  cranny, 
nothing  was  found  of  the  missing  will — if,  indeed,  it  had  ever 
existed.  The  child  was  grievously  disappointed,  but  would 
not  quite  give  up  hope.  She  carried  the  precious  blotting- 
pad  up  to  her  own  room,  and  locked  it  in  her  wardrobe 
drawer.  Then  she  went  up  to  see  whether  Miss  Gordon  was 
awake. 

'I  want  to  go  along  to  Achnafauld,  Miss  Gordon,'  she  said, 
seeing  that  she  was  wide  awake.  '  Would  it  be  too  far  to 
walk?' 

4  Well,  perhaps,  to-night,  it  would,  dear.  If  you  could  wait 
till  the  morning,  I  would  go  with  you.' 

4 1  want  to  go  to-night,  though,'  said  Sheila.  '  It  will  be  light 
for  a  long  time  yet,  and  Malcolm  and  Katie  Menzies  will  convoy 


230  SHEILA. 

me  home.  I  have  never  been  at  the  Fauld,  Miss  Gordon,  since 
last  year,  before  I  went  to  school.' 

Sheila's  listless,  brooding  thoughtfulness  seemed  to  have 
vanished  utterly.  She  was  alert  now,  anxious  to  be  up  and 
doing.  The  time  for  action  had  come.  Harriet  Gordon,  a  few 
minutes  later,  watched  the  tall,  slight,  lissom  figure,  walking 
with  swift,  firm,  purpose-like  step  along  the  white  road  from  the 
Girron  Brig,  and  smiled  a  little.  Unless  she  was  very  much 
mistaken,  the  people's  interests  would  be  looked  into,  and  as 
they  had  never  been  looked  into  in  any  laird's  time.  Sheila 
knew  their  inner  life,  and  would  take  a  personal  interest  in  all 
their  affairs.  The  governess,  who,  nice  most  folk,  disliked  and 
distrusted  Angus  M'Bean,  wondered  how  he  would  like  the  new 
rule.  Though  it  was  in  the  frail  hands  of  a  girl,  it  might  be 
too  firm  for  his  taste. 

Sheila  did  not  meet  any  one  on  the  road  but  the  innkeeper's 
herd,  who,  not  recognising  her,  bade  her  turn  his  cattle  about  if 
she  met  them  '  wast  the  Glen.'  She  smiled,  and,  promising  to  do 
so,  walked  rapidly  on.  It  was  delightful  to  be  out  in  these 
open  roads,  with  the  wide-spreading  heathery  moors  on  either 
side,  and  the  cool,  fresh  mountain  breezes  blowing  about  her 
like  the  elixir  of  life.  How  solemn  and  majestic  the  towering 
peaks  of  the  encircling  hills !  Looking  back,  the  purple  after- 
glow from  the  sunset  lay  exquisitely  on  the  Girron,  while  Tom- 
nagrew  was  in  darkest  shadow.  A  golden  shaft  again  touched 
the  rugged  shoulder  of  Craig  Hulich.  Light  and  shadow 
exquisitely  blended  or  sharply  contrasted  gave  to  the  landscape 
a  beauty  second  in  Sheila's  eyes  to  none.  She  only  looked  once 
more  to  Craig  Hulich,  sharply  defined  against  the  clear  amber 
sky ;  she  could  not  forget  that  in  Shonnen  dwelt  a  woman  who 
hated  her  with  a  terrible  hatred,  rendered  doubly  awful  to 
Sheila,  because  it  was  the  mother  of  Fergus  Macleod  who  bore 
such  causeless  resentment  against  her.  Away  up  the  Glen  the 
beauty  of  the  summer  evening  was  seen  in  its  most  striking 
aspect  of  perfect  peace.  There  was  not  a  ripple  on  the  breast 
of  the  loch,  and  the  Quaich,  like  a  thread  of  gold,  watered  the 
low  green  banks,  where  the  lambs  were  frisking  about  their 
mothers,  and  as  if  rejoicing  in  the  sweetness  of  a  perfect  sumniei 


HOME.  231 

day.  The  trees  were  green  and  lovely  about  Shian ;  but  Sheila 
could  not  look  often  there.  Some  day  she  would  visit  that 
quiet  resting-place,  but  not  yet. 

She  did  not  meet  the  cattle  on  the  road,  but,  seeing  them  on 
the  slope  of  the  brae  leading  over  to  Corrymuckloch,  she  took 
the  trouble  to  go  up  and  turn  them  about  on  their  homeward 
way.  The  exertion  heated  her,  and  there  was  a  lovely  flush 
on  her  face  when  she  reached  the  Fauld  and  entered  Janet 
Menzies'  cottage. 

'  Wha's  that  ? '  asked  the  old  woman  querulously ;  then  she 
added  a  sharp  sentence  in  Gaelic,  which  Sheila,  of  course,  did 
not  understand.  '  Katie,  ye  jaud !  come  here ;  there's  a  strange 
wummin  at  the  door.' 

'It's  only  me,  Janet,'  said  Sheila,  coming  forward.  'Don't 
you  know  ine?  I  missed  you  from  your  chair.  Have  you 
been  long  in  bed  ? ' 

'  Ay,  ower  lang.  So  it's  you,  Miss  Sheila  ? '  said  Janet,  un- 
graciously enough  still.  'Katie,  whaur  are  ye?  Ill  befa' 
her !  she's  never  in.  But  I  daursay  she'll  be  helpin'  some  o' 
them  wi*  their  kye.  A'thing  but  her  ain  duty.  Sit  down. 
Are  ye  hame  to  Dalmore  ?' 

'  Yes  ;  I  only  came  to-day.' 

'Jist  aboot  time,  then,  or  ye  needna  ha'  come  ava. 
Leddy  Cameron  and  her  set  wad  sune  eat  ye  oot  o'  hoose 
an'  hame,'  said  Janet  grimly.  *  Whaur  hae  ye  been  a'  this 
while?' 

'At  Murray shaugh.    Oh,  here's  Katie.    How  are  you,  Katie?1 

'Miss  Sheila  I' 

Katie  blushed  with  pleasure,  and  somewhat  shyly  took  the 
proffered  hand.  Two  fair  young  creatures  both  were,  as  they 
stood  there,  each  contrasting  well  with  the  other.  Katie,  in  her 
fresh  calico  and  spotless  kerchief,  her  bonnie  face  bronzed  with 
the  sun,  was  as  fair  in  her  own  way  as  the  dainty  young  Lady 
of  Dalmore. 

•How  difterent  you  look,  Miss  Sheila t  I  think  I  shouldna 
hae  kent  ye,'  said  Katie,  knowing  by  the  sweet,  easy  smile  that 
there  was  no  inner  change. 

'  Tou  are  different,  too,  Katie.     Isn't  she  bonnie,  Janet  ?  ' 


232  SHEILA. 

'  Bonnie  !  I  dinna  see't.  She's  fair  eneuch  without  ye  tellin' 
her  ony  mnir.  The  lads  are  beginnin'  to  rin  aboot;  a  perfect 
heartbreak,  besides  an  end  to  wark.' 

'  Oh,  Aunt  Janet ! '  said  Katie,  growing  redder  still.  '  Never 
mind  her,  Miss  Sheila.  You  must  see  Malcolm.  I  think  he 
is  over  at  the  stocking-weaver's.' 

'Well,  I'm  going  there,  so  never  mind  telling  him,  Katie. 
Is  your  aunt  always  in  her  bed  now  ? ' 

'  Oo  ay,  aye  abed  I '  grumbled  the  old  woman.  *  I'd  rather 
be  deid,  and  dune  wi't.  I  dinna  ken  what  pleasure  it  can  gie 
the  Almichty  to  keep  me  lyin',  sair  and  weary,  here.' 

'  Wheesht,  auntie  1 '  said  Katie  reprovingly ;  but  Sheila  could 
not  help  laughing  at  the  odd  speech. 

'  So  word  has  come  home  from  America,  and  they  are  to  get 
on  nicely?'  she  said,  to  change  the  subject. 

'  So  they  say,  so  they  say — just  lees,  I  tell  them.  Wha's  t( 
ken  what's  true  and  what's  lees,  and  sae  muckle  water  atween 
them?'  said  Jenny,  in  her  usual  cantankerous  spirit.  'Ay, 
Angus  M'Bean's  gettin*  the  auld  place  cleared  oot  in  braw 
style.  He's  Laird  o'  Palmore  noo,  ye  ken.' 

'Aunt  Janet,  dinna  be  impudent,'  said  Katie,  in  a  vexed  tone. 
'  She's  waur  than  she  used  to  be,  Miss  Sheila,  but  nobody  minds 
her.' 

'You  dinna,  ony  way,  ye  jaud!  though  I  brocht  ye  up. 
Folks'  ain  bairns  are  bad,  they  say,  though  I  never  had  ony, 
but  ither  folks'  are  a  hantle  waur.  Will  ye  tak'  my  advice, 
Miss  Sheila?  If  ye  are  the  Leddy  o'  Dalmore,  as  they  say, 
set  that  ill  carle  at  Auchloy  about  his  business.  1  ken  him — 
wha  better?  He's  feart  for  my  crawin',  an'  thocht  he'd  get 
me  shippet  awa'  to  Canady;  but  Angus  M'Bean  an'  me  hae  a 
wee  bit  account  to  settle  yet.' 


CHAPTER  XXVL 


HER   OWN   FOLK. 

Thou  art  no  lingerer  in  a  monarch's  hall ; 
A  joy  thou  art,  and  a  wealth  to  all ! 
A  bearer  of  hope  unto  land  and  sea. 

RE  you  gaun  to  bide  at  the  big  boose  noo,  Miss 
Sheila  ? '  Katie  asked,  following  Sheila  to  the  door 
when  she  went  away. 

'Yes,  I  think  so.  I  have  been  a  long  time 
away,  Katie.  How  is  Malcolm?  Is  he  quite  strong 
now?' 

'Only  whiles,'  answered  Katie,  with  a  shadow  on  her  fair 
face.  '  He  gets  himsel'  into  sic  passions  aboot  naething,  and 
he's  as  weak  as  water  efter't,  Miss  Sheila.  There's  no'  much  to 
be  made  off  the  land,  but  it's  better  than  naething.  Ye'll  no' 
let  Mr.  M'Bean  put  auntie  oot  o*  the  hoose,  an'  tak'  the  croft 
frae  her  at  Martinmas  ? ' 

'  Katie  Menzies  1  how  could  you  think  of  such  a  dreadful 
thing  ? '  asked  Sheila,  in  a  shocked,  sorrowful  voice. 

'  Weel,  Mr.  M 'Bean's  aye  tellin'  Malky  this'll  be  his  last 
hairst,'  said  Katie,  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  'You  snould  see 
Malky  after  Mr.  M'Bean's  been  speakin'  till  him.  His  een 
glower  like  fire,  an'  he  fair  shakes  wi'  rage.  I'm  terrified 
whiles  for  fear  they  fa'  oot' 


234  SHEILA. 

1  Til  see  Malcolm,  Katie ;  and  don't  you  vex  yourself  about 
the  house  or  the  croft.  Too  many  have  left  the  Glen  already. 
There  will  be  no  more  if  I  can  help  it,'  said  Sheila,  with  the 
grave  decision  of  a  woman.  The  assurance  comforted  Katie, 
and  she  had  a  smile  again  as  she  said  good-bye.  Sheila  crossed 
through  the  clachan,  not  caring  to  look  at  all  at  the  '  smiddy,' 
where  Donald  and  Mary  had  been  wont  to  welcome  her  so 
warmly,  and  went  straight  to  Rob  Macnaughton's  door.  It 
was  shut  as  usual,  but,  after  giving  a  light  tap,  she  went  in.  It 
was  never  broad  daylight  in  these  little,  low,  thatched  cottages, 
and  soon  after  sundown  they  had  to  light  their  lamps.  But 
Rob  and  Malcolm  Menzies  were  sitting  in  the  red  glow  of  the 
peat  fire,  and  the  little  kitchen  was  full  of  curious  shadows, 
made  by  the  blending  of  daylight  and  firelight.  It  was  a 
few  seconds  before  Sheila's  eye  got  so  accustomed  to  the 
gloom  that  she  could  discern  the  two  figures  sitting  by  the 
hearth. 

I  It's  only  me,  Rob,'  she  said,  with  a  little  laugh.     *  Malcolm, 
how  are  you?  I  can  hardly  see  you.' 

'Bless  the  bairn  I*  said  the  stocking-weaver,  springing  up. 
'  Ye  came  in  that  canny  a  moose  wadna  hear  ye.  Malcolm 
and  me's  at  the  Gaelic.  He's  ta'en  the  notion  to  learn  it,  an' 
it  keeps  him  oot  o'  mischief.' 

Malcolm  rose,  blushing  painfully,  and  shuffled  awkwardly 
back  from  the  fireside,  quite  ignoring  the  kind  hand  Sheila 
stretched  out  to  him  in  greeting.  A  big,  uncouth-looking 
fellow  was  Malcolm  still, — a  man  in  height,  but  loose  and 
ill  -  hung,  his  bony  cheeks  gaunt  and  hollow,  his  eyes  far 
sunken  in  his  head,  and  his  matted  brown  hair  hanging  in 
tangles  about  his  face,  quite  hiding  the  high  forehead,  which, 
being  always  thus  covered,  was  as  white  as  snow,  and  some- 
times, when  he  would  push  the  hair  aside,  it  showed  in  curious 
contrast  against  the  swarthy,  sunburnt  hue  of  the  lower  part 
of  his  face. 

I 1  have  been  in  seeing  your  aunt  and  Katie,  and  I  came  over 
to  see  you,  Malcolm,'  said  Sheila.       'And  how  is  he  getting 
on  with  the  Gaelic,  Rob?     How  fond  he  is  of  learning  new 
things  1 ' 


HER  OWN  FOLK.  235 

*He's  getting  on  faster  than  I  can  teach  him,'  said  Rob, 
busying  himself  with  the  lamp  on  the  table.  '  But,  faith,  he 
asks  for  explanations  I  canna  gie  him.  I'm  no'  a  grammarian, 
ye  ken ;  it's  the  hamert  Gaelic  I  teach.' 

'  Sit  down,  Malcolm ;  don't  go  away  because  I  have  come  in,; 
said  Sheila  kindly ;  but  Malcolm,  with  a  toss  of  his  long  hair, 
suddenly  clutched  his  shanter,  and  disappeared  like  a  shot  out 
of  the  door. 

'  He's  a  queer  ane,  Miss  Sheila,'  said  Eob,  with  his  dry  laugh. 
'  Ye  never  ken  whaur  ye  hae  him.  But  I'm  jist  as  weel  pleased 
he's  gane.  Sit  doon,  sit  doon.  So  ye've  come  back,  my  bairnie, 
to  your  ain  ? ' 

The  harsh  voice  of  the  stocking-weaver  became  soft  and  low 
as  he  uttered  the  last  sentence,  and  his  rugged  eyes  looked  with 
a  peculiar  tenderness  at  the  sweet,  refined  face  of  the  young 
creature  sitting  by  his  hearth. 

'  Yes,  Rob,'  said  Sheila,  with  a  catch  in  her  voice ;  '  I  came 
back  to-day.' 

'An'  the  auld  hoose  seemed  empty,  and  the  bit  heart  cried 
out  for  them  that's  awa?  Ay,  ay,'  said  Rob,  as  he  stirred  up 
the  peats  on  the  hearth  to  make  a  cheery  glow,  'it  was  a 
bairn  that  gaed  awa,  an'  I  see  it's  a  woman  that  has  come  back. 
But  she'll  be  guided  and  blessed,  for  the  blessin'  o'  the  Lord  is 
upon  her.' 

Sheila  sat  very  still;  feeling,  indeed,  as  if  some  precious 
benison  was  falling  on  her  head. 

'  It  is  empty  and  sad,  Rob,'  she  said  at  length ;  '  and  oh,  how 
different  it  is  here  at  the  Fauld,  too !  There's  only  you  and  the 
Menzies,  where  there  used  to  be  so  many.' 

'  Ay,  an'  there'll  be  fewer.  He's  to  put  Malcolm  oot, 
they  say,  at  the  back-end;  but  afore  that  there'll  maybe  be 
an  ill  deed  dune  in  the  Glen  that  will  bring  a  curse  upon 
it.' 

'  He  will  not  put  Malcolm  out,  Rob.  I  have  come  home,'  said 
Sheila ;  and  her  sweet  mouth  became  proud  and  determined,  and 
her  soft  eyes  flashed  with  a  brave  resolve. 

The  stocking-weaver  gave  his  knee  a  great  slap  with  his 
horny  hand,  and  chuckled  merrily. 


«36  SHEILA. 

'  Ay,  ay,  the  bairn  is  a  woman,  an'  he's  to  get  his  match. 
Sic  fun  I ' 

Sheila  laughed  a  little,  too.  That  curious  chuckle  of  Rob's 
was  very  contagious. 

'  Rob,  will  yon  take  another  pupil  ?  /  want  to  learn  Gaelic 
too,'  she  said  presently. 

'  You  learn  frae  me !  Ye  heard  what  I  said,  it's  hamert 
Gaelic  I  teach ;  I  hinna  grammar.' 

'Don't  tell  me  that,  Rob,  when  you  can  write  such  perfect 
little  poems.  I  heard  a  great  professor  from  Edinburgh  at 
Murrayshaugh,  one  day,  saying  they  were  among  the  classic 
literature  of  Scotland,  and  I  felt  dreadful  because  I  had  never 
read  them,'  said  Sheila  quickly.  '  I  want  you  to  teach  me 
your  own  Gaelic,  because  I  want  to  be  able  to  read  your 
poems,  and  to  speak  to  the  old  people  in  the  Glen  in  their 
own  tongue.' 

'Bless  the  bairn  !'  said  Rob,  under  his  breath,  and  stooped 
over  the  peats  again  to  hide  the  moisture  in  his  eye.  Those 
outside  who  only  knew  the  rough  side  of  the  stocking-weaver 
would  not  have  known  him  in  such  a  mood  as  this,  but  Sheil? 
had  never  seen  him  in  any  other. 

'I'm  going  to  come  about  the  Fauld  a  great  deal,  Rob,' 
she  said,  rising  presently  to  go.  'I  want  to  get  to  know 
everybody  from  Findowie  up  to  Garrows.  How  long  do 
you  suppose  it  will  take  me  to  make  acquaintance  with 
them  all?' 

'  I  dinna  ken.  There's  some  o'  them  hardly  worth  the 
trouble,  but  ye'll  find  oot  the  ill  wi'  the  guid.  I  see  ye  are 
beginnin'  weel,  my  bairn,  an'  the  new  Leddy  of  Dalmore  is  to 
be  such  as  was  never  seen.' 

'  Hush,  Rob ! '  said  Sheila,  and  her  tears  sprang  again. 

Rob  sat  long  after  she  had  left  him,  pondering  the  thing  in  his 
mind,  with  a  dreamy  expression  on  his  face  which  betokened 
the  deepest  thought. 

The  new  Lady  of  Dalmore  was  not  to  let  the  grass  grow 
under  her  feet.  Immediately  after  breakfast  next  morning  the 
carriage  was  ordered,  and  great  was  the  amazement  of  the 
coachman  when  he  received  his  order  to  drive  to  the  office  of 


HER  OWN  FOLK.  237 

Mr.  Colquhoun,  the  lawyer  in  Perth.  Miss  Gordon  was  so  far 
recovered  that  she  was  able  to  accompany  her  charge,  but  she 
was  quite  ignorant  of  the  object  of  the  journey.  She  thought 
to  herself,  however,  that  Lady  Ailsa  might  have  spared  the 
injunctions  to  keep  Sheila  in  occupation.  There  seemed  to  be 
a  danger  rather  of  her  attempting  too  much. 

*  I  think  you  should  get  down  at  the  Salutation,  Miss  Gordon, 
and  order  our  lunch,'  said  Sheila,  when  they  reached  Perth. 
'  I  will  not  be  long  at  Mr.  Colquhoun's.' 

The  governess  assented,  and  Sheila  went  alone  to  the  lawyer's 
office.  Needless  to  say,  he  was  amazed  to  see  her,  but  his 
greeting  was  most  kind.  The  scene  at  Dalmore,  through  which 
his  young  client  had  carried  herself  so  nobly,  was  still  fresh  in 
his  memory. 

'Yes,  I  am  staying  at  Dalmore,  Mr.  Colquhoun,'  she  said, 
in  answer  to  his  first  question,  '  and  I  have  come  to  ask  you 
some  questions.  There  are  a  great  many  things  I  want  to 
know.' 

As  she  spoke,  she  began  to  unfasten  the  string  from  a  large 
flat  parcel  wrapped  in  brown  paper.  It  was  the  blotting-pad 
the  Laird  had  used  the  last  time  he  had  a  pen  in  his  hand. 
Mr.  Colquhoun  was  perfectly  amazed,  but  in  a  few  words 
Sheila  explained  the  whole  matter  to  him.  Her  anxiety  and 
distress  even  were  so  genuine,  that  he  treated  her  communica- 
tion with  a  corresponding  gravity,  though  it  amused  him  very 
much. 

'  My  dear  Miss  Murray  Macdonald,'  he  said,  looking  straight 
into  the  earnest  face,  'I  entreat  you  not  to  trouble  yourself 
about  this.  I  assure  you  Mr.  Macdonald's  mind  was  quite 
made  up.  His  decision  about  Dalmore  was  unalterable.  Both 
Lady  Murray  and  I  put  Mr.  Fergus  Macleod's  claim  before 
him,  but  it  was  you  he  wished  to  heir  Dalmore.  The  will 
carrying  that  wish  into  effect  was  only  drawn  up  three  dnys 
before  his  death.  It  was  impossible — at  least,  most  improbable 
— that  he  should  change  his  mind.  And  supposing  he  had, 
would  he  not  have  given  the  new  will,  when  he  made  it,  into 
safe  keeping,  or  put  it  where  it  would  be  found?' 

'  Well,  perhaps,'  said  Sheila,  but  her  tone  was  very  doubtful. 


238  SHEILA. 

'  My  dear  young  lady,  I  assure  you  it  would  vex  and  grieve 
your  father  if  he  knew  of  the  needless  anxiety  you  are  giving 
yourself,'  said  the  lawyer  gravely  and  kindly.  'And  why  be 
so  downcast  about  Mr.  Fergus  Macleod?  His  uncle  did  not 
forget  him,  and  he  is  a  clever  young  fellow,  with  life  all  before 
him.  He  may  make  a  far  better  use  of  his  talents  because  he 
has  his  own  way  to  carve.  This  very  thing  which  is  vexing 
you  may  be  the  making  of  him.' 

Sheila's  face  brightened.  This  was  a  side  of  the  question 
which  had  never  occurred  to  her  before. 

'  So  you  must  try  and  enjoy  your  inheritance.  I  am  sur<j 
Dalmore  could  never  have  a  sweeter  mistress,'  said  the  old 
lawyer  gallantly. 

'  Then,  if  Dalmore  is  mine,  I  may  do  what  I  like ;  may  I, 
Mr.  Colquhoun  ? ' 

'Yes.  In  very  important  matters  you  would  require  to 
consult  Mr.  Macfarlane,  the  minister,  as  your  trustee.' 

'Suppose,  then,  Mr.  Colquhoun,  that  Mr.  M'Bean  wished 
to  put  the  cottars  out  of  the  Fauld,  could  I  prevent 
him?' 

'You  are  mistress  of  Dalmore;  Angus  M'Bean  is  your 
servant,  Miss  Murray  Macdonald,'  said  the  lawyer,  with  a  dry 
smile  of  enjoyment.  He  did  not  like  Angus  M'Bean,  and 
foresaw  that  the  new  Lady  was  to  clip  the  ambitious  factor's 
wings. 

'Then  I  may  tell  him,  Me.  Colquhoun,  that  he  is  to  leave 
the  Menzies  alone,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  folk  ?  If  they  pay 
their  rents,  I  wish  them  to  stay.' 

'You  can  tell  him  anything  you  like.  It  will  do  him  good,' 
said  the  lawyer  briskly.  '  And  in  any  difficulty  with  him  come 
to  me.' 

'Thank  you,  that  is  all  I  wish  to  know,'  said  Sheila;  and  the 
look  of  grave  anxiety  quite  lifted  off  her  face.  The  lawyer 
handed  her  to  her  carriage  with  a  deference  he  did  not  always 
pay  to  more  important  clients.  She  had  roused  his  deepest 
interest  and  admiration. 

Harriet  Gordon  was  amazed  at  Sheila  when  she  returned 
to  the  hotel.  She  was  so  bright  and  happy,  more  like  the 


HER  OWN  FOLK.  239 

Sheila  of  long  ago.  She  talked  gaily  all  the  wny  home, 
pointing  out  every  object  of  interest  in  the  sma'  glen, — the 
Eoman  camp,  Ossian's  grave,  and  the  Soldier's  grave, — not  one 
was  forgotten. 

When  they  came  near  Corrymuckloch  Inn,  she  stood  up  and 
bade  the  coachman  go  over  the  old  road  to  Auchloy.  They 
drew  up  at  the  factor's  trimly  kept  lawn  just  as  that  gentleman 
was  sitting  down  to  his  substantial  three  o'clock  dinner.  The 
two  fine  young  ladies,  in  their  starched  muslins  and  glossy 
curls,  immediately  flew  into  a  tremendous  excitement  at  sight 
of  the  prancing  horses  at  the  dining-room  window,  and  hid 
themselves  behind  the  curtains  to  see  who  were  in  the 
carriage. 

Mrs.  M'Bean  would  have  hurried  to  the  door  to  welcome 
her  distinguished  guest,  but  her  husband  restrained  her;  and 
when  Sheila  asked  for  the  factor,  she  was  shown  into  the  brand 
new  drawing-room  like  an  ordinary  caller.  Young  though  she 
wag,  the  child  had  her  own  pride,  and  felt  that  the  factor  might 
at  least  have  come  to  the  door.  She  was  standing  by  the  table, 
with  her  hand  laid  lightly  on  the  fine  embroidered  cover,  when 
the  door  opened,  and  Mr.  M'Bean  entered,  all  smiles,  to  greet  the 
young  Lady  of  Dalmore.  He  had  assumed  a  benign,  almost 
fatherly  demeanour,  which,  however,  was  chilled  by  the  grave, 
somewhat  haughty,  look  in  the  young  lady's  face. 

'Good- morning,  Mr.  M'Bean,'  she  said  quietly. 

*  Good-morning,  Miss  Sheila.  Pray  be  seated,  and  I  will 
tell  Mrs.  M'Bean  and  the  girls  to  come  in.  They  will 
be  charmed  with  your  visit.  When  did  you  come  to 
Dalmore  ? ' 

'I  wish  to  speak  to  you,  Mr.  M'Bean,'  said  Sheila  quite 
pointedly.  «I  came  to  Dalmore  yesterday,  and  I  was  at  the 
Fauld  last  night.  I  heard  from  Malcolm  Menzies  that  you 
spoke  of  making  them  leave  the  croft  soon.  I  hope  you  will 
never  say  such  a  thing  to  them  again.  And  if  they  can  make 
more  money  with  more  land,  they  can  have  Eory  Maclean's 
croft  too.  It  is  quite  close  by.  I  want  the  people  to  live 
happy  and  comfortable  in  the  Fauld,  and  I  am  going  to  stay 
here  and  look  after  them  now/ 


240 


SHEILA. 


Sheila  delivered  this  brave  speech  without  a  quaver  in  In  i 
sweet  young  voice.  Long  afterwards,  recalling  that  scene, 
she  wondered  at  her  own  temerity,  and  laughed  over  the 
recollection  of  the  blank,  dumbfounded  look  on  the  face  of 
Angus  M'Bean. 


CHAPTER  XX VII. 


HER   RESOLVE. 


Oh,  it  la  sad  to  feel  our  heart-spring  gone, 
To  lose  hope,  care  not  for  the  coming  thing. 


BAIUCT. 


LLEN  MACLEOD  was  dwelling  alone  in  bitterness  of 
soul  at  Shonnen.  After  the  Laird's  death  and  the 
reading  of  the  will,  Angus  M'Bean  paid  no  more 
court  to  the  haughty,  dark-browed  mistress  of  the 
Lodge,  and  right  well  did  she  know  why.  It  only  added  to  the 
weight  of  wrong  which  seemed  heaped  upon  her.  If  dark 
glances  from  an  angry  eye  could  have  done  evil  to  Dal  more,  its 
summer  beauty  might  well  have  been  blasted ;  for  often,  often 
did  Ellen  Macleod  stand  at  the  upper  windows  of  the  Lodge, 
and  in  her  heart  curse  the  place  and  all  who  dwelt  within  it. 
But  the  curse  causeless  shall  not  come.  Peace  dwelt  upon 
Dalmore,  and  its  young  mistress  was  happy  with  the  happiness 
which  comes  of  a  contented,  occupied,  generous  mind.  The 
cloud  had  lifted  from  off  the  child,  and  though  occasionally  the 
old  fear  that  she  might  be  unrighteously  enjoying  another's 
heritage  rose  up  to  darken  the  sunshine  for  a  little,  it  soon 
passed.  Occasionally  she  went  to  renew  her  search  in  the 
Laird's  rooms,  and  even  tap  the  old  walls,  after  reading  some 

tale  of  mystery  and  crime,  to  seek  for  some  secret  cavity,  but 
16 


242  SHEILA. 

there  was  no  romance  of  that  kind  about  Dalmore.  The  old 
house  of  Findowie,  now  a  ruin,  was  said  to  be  filled  with 
curious  recesses  and  hidden  rooms,  and  even  to  have  under- 
ground passages  below  the  bed  of  the  Braan,  in  which  the  old 
Laird  of  Findowie  had  hidden  in  the  dark  days  after  Culloden, 
but  there  was  no  mystery  of  romance  or  intrigue  about  Dalmore. 
Angus  M'Bean  had  verily  got  his  wings  clipped.  Mr.  Mac- 
farlane,  the  minister  of  Amulree,  and  Sheila's  only  trustee,  was 
about  as  unfit  for  discharging  the  business  part  of  his  engage- 
ment as  a  man  could  possibly  be.  He  was  a  student  and  a 
recluse,  whose  whole  soul  was  engrossed  by  the  study  of  every 
'ology'  except  theology.  He  knew  all  the  folk-lore  of  Perthshire, 
and  had  tales  about  Amulree  and  Glenquaich  at  his  finger-ends 
which  would  make  other  folks'  hair  stand  on  end.  He  knew 
the  very  paths  the  fugitives  had  taken  after  Culloden,  and  the 
caves  in  which  they  hid.  And  as  for  brownies  and  warlocks, 
and  other  uncanny  folk,  he  knew  all  their  haunts,  and  every 
old  '  ploy '  in  which  the  legends  of  the  ingle-neuk  gave  them  a 
part.  He  was  a  kindly,  honest,  simple  old  man,  who  preached 
practical  discourses,  unembellished  by  any  rhetorical  display  or 
depth  of  reasoning,  yet  finely  suited  to  the  needs  of  his  folk. 
Why  Macdonald  had  left  him  sole  trustee  was  a  mystery,  unless 
he  had  wished  Sheila  to  have  her  own  way  absolutely.  She 
consulted  him  on  every  point,  but  it  was  only  a  form,  for  he 
was  with  her,  heart  and  soul,  in  her  desire  and  plan  to  better  the 
condition  of  the  poor  cottars  in  the  Glen.  He  had  long  deplored 
the  influence  of  Angus  M'Bean  with  the  old  Laird,  and  had  on 
more  than  one  occasion  treated  that  worthy  to  an  unvarnished 
opinion,  therefore  he  rejoiced  that  the  old  Laird's  adopted 
daughter  was  beginning  her  reign  so  well.  So  the  work  of 
*  sweeping  the  Fauld  off  the  face  of  the  earth '  came  to  a  sudden 
end,  and  the  place  took  a  new  lease  of  life.  Malcolm  Menzies 
got  Rory  Maclean's  croft,  and  a  horse,  also  two  cows.  The 
houses  were  repaired,  and  the  wood  driven  from  the  head  of  the 
Glen  by  horses  provided  at  the  expense  of  the  estate.  Were  I 
to  attempt  a  description  of  Angus  M'Bean's  state  of  mind  at 
finding  himself  foiled  by  a  young  girl,  I  should  simply  fail,  so 
we  shall  leave  him  alone. 


HER  RESOLVE.  243 

Rob  Macnanghton,  the  stocking-weaver,  wrote  occasionally  to 
Fergus  Macleod  in  Edinburgh,  acquainting  him  with  the  happy 
changes  taking  place  in  the  Glen,  and  Fergus  rejoiced  over  it 
all  in  a  manly,  generous  spirit,  but  was  not  much  surprised. 
Sheila  could  never  be  anything  but  kind,  and  she  knew  and 
loved  the  folk  just  as  he  did.  Fergus  was  not  very  happy  in 
Edinburgh.  A  part  of  his  college  life  he  enjoyed,  for,  as  was 
to  be  expected,  he  was  a  prime  favourite  with  'the  fellows,' 
but  he  had  no  sympathy  with  the  classical  study  he  was 
pursuing.  His  heart  was  not  in  it,  and  he  felt  that  it  was  mere 
waste  of  time  and  money  for  him  to  stay.  He  knew  quite  well 
that,  after  the  final  settlement  of  his  uncle's  affairs,  his  mother 
had  again  decided  that  he  should  study  for  the  Church,  but  on 
that  point  the  lad  was  absolutely  determined.  As  the  long,  hot 
days  of  the  summer  session  dragged  away,  he  pondered  the 
whole  matter  in  his  mind,-  engrossing  his  faculties  with  it  in  the 
rery  lecture-rooms,  while  the  rest  were  busy  with  their  books, 
and  when  the  holidays  came,  his  mind  was  made  up  as  to  what 
course  he  should  pursue.  He  was  just  at  the  restless,  un- 
settled age  when  youth  seeks  constantly  after  some  new  thing. 
His  desire  pointed  that  summer  away  across  the  sea  to  the  new 
country  where  the  first  pioneers  from  Glenquaich  had  gone, 
and  he  asked  no  better  destiny  just  then  than  to  follow  them, 
and  cast  in  his  lot  with  theirs.  Nothing  but  labouring  with  his 
hands,  and  earning  his  bread  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  would 
satisfy  him ;  book  learning  and  the  classic  shades  of  the  grey 
old  college  were  hateful  to  him,  though  they  were  the  precious 
things  of  earth  to  others.  Alastair  Murray  enjoyed  himself 
very  well  in  Edinburgh,  dabbling  in  agricultural  chemistry,  and 
looking  in  occasionally  at  the  law  classes,  but  he  had  no 
particular  end  in  view.  There  were  plenty  like  him, — lairds' 
sons,  who  were  supposed  to  get  an  insight  into  study  which 
would  fit  them  for  the  whole  management  of  their  estates,  but 
who  managed  tc  make  their  college  days  more  a  play-time 
than  lesson-time.  Angus  M'Bean  belonged  to  a  different  class. 
He  worked  by  fits  and  starts  with  all  his  might,  when  a  more 
than  usually  impressive  letter  from  Auchloy  progged  him  up ; 
but  he  was  an  idle,  dissipated  young  upstart,  who  spent  his 


244  SHEILA. 

evenings  in  questionable  company,  and  imagined  himself  a  fine 
'  man  about  town.'  Poor  young  fool  1  in  that  idea,  unfortunately, 
he  did  not  stand  alone.  He  found  plenty  of  companions,  also ; 
but  Fergus  seemed  to  be  very  much  alone.  Nobody  could  un- 
derstand just  how  he  felt,  and  altogether  that  was  an  unprofit- 
able session  for  him,  and  he  was  glad  when  it  came  to  an  end. 

It  was  a  dreary,  wet  night  when  he  trudged  up  the  long 
miles  between  Dunkeld  and  Amulree,  leaving  his  bag  to  come 
by  the  post-gig  next  day.  He  had  travelled  himself  from  Edin- 
burgh, Alastair  being  away  for  a  week's  fishing  in  the  Lammer- 
muirs  with  the  young  Laird  of  Wemyss,  and  Puddin'  M'Bean 
deeming  it  wise  to  remain  a  day  or  two  in  town,  until  the 
effects  of  the  farewell  supper  had  worn  off,  before  he  put  in  an 
appearance  at  Auchloy,  and  subjected  himself  to  the  keen 
paternal  vision.  Fergus  felt  rather  dejected  and  miserable  as 
he  trudged  along  the  sodden  roads,  and  did  not  once  look  back 
that  day  at  the  mist-wreathed  face  of  Craigybarns.  He  was 
rather  inclined  to  turn  his  back  on  Scotland  just  then,  having 
got  himself  into  a  '  drumlie '  state  of  mind.  He  was  just  at 
Ballocliraggan,  when  he  heard  a  shout  behind  him,  and,  looking 
back,  he  saw  a  farmer's  gig  coming  up  rapidly,  and  recognised 
Donald  Stewart,  the  farmer  in  Dalieoch  on  the  Findowie  side  of 
the  Braan.  Fergus  did  not  know  him  very  well,  for  he  was 
the  largest  farmer  on  the  estate,  and  quite  different  from  the 
cottars  up  the  Glen.  Dalreoch  had  very  little  to  do  with 
Angus  M'Bean,  even, — his  rent  being  paid  half-yearly  to  Mr. 
Colquhoun  at  the  office  in  Perth.  But  Fergus  knew  him  by 
repute  as  a  fine  man ;  and  indeed  his  face,  with  its  pleasant 
smile  and  honest,  kindly  eye,  was  enough  to  win  respect  and 
liking  anywhere. 

'  Jump  up,  Mr.  Fergus,'  he  said  heartily.  '  I  was  sure  it 
was  you.  If  you  had  only  sent  me  word  I  could  have  met  you 
at  the  train.  There's  nothing  doing.  We're  just  waiting  fine 
weather  for  the  hay.' 

'It  has  been  a  lot  of  rain,  I  see,  Mr.  Stewart,'  answered 
Fergus,  jumping  up,  nothing  loth,  for  he  had  not  specially 
enjoyed  his  tramp.  'What  a  fine  horse!  She's  a  splendid 
trotter,  surely  ? ' 


HER  RESOLVE.  245 

1  Ay,  Nellie  knows  her  work,'  said  the  farmer,  nodding 
affectionately  over  at  the  mare.  '  An'  she  does  it,  which  is 
more  than  some  folk  do.  You've  got  your  holidays,  Mr. 
Fergus  ? ' 

'  Yes,  two  months,  if  I  go  back  to  college,'  answered  Fergus. 

'  You  don't  look  very  hardy.  The  hills  will  do  ye  good,' 
said  the  farmer,  looking  kindly  at  the  young  man's  somewhat 
pale,  thin  face.  Fergus  had  worried  himself  in  Edinburgh, 
and  worry  always  tells. 

'  I  don't  like  the  town.  What's  going  on  up  here  ? '  asked 
Fergus. 

'  No'  much.     Did  the  factor's  son  not  come  over  with  ye  ?  ' 

'No,'  returned  Fergus,  but  did  not  tell  the  reason  why.  He 
was  not  a  sneak  or  a  tell-tale,  though  Angus  would  have  told 
readily  enough  on  him. 

'  And  what  will  ye  do  with  yourself  all  summer,  do  you 
think?' 

*  I  don't  know  yet.  They're  getting  on  better  at  the  Fauld 
now,  Mr.  Stewart  ?  ' 

'  Ay ;  the  factor's  gotten  a  new  master,'  returned  Mr.  Stewart, 
with  a  quiet  laugh  of  enjoyment.  'It  disna  dae  to  ask  him 
hoo  he  likes  the  Leddy's  hand  on  his  bridle,  Mr.  Fergus.' 

'  It'll  do  him  good.  He's  a  mean  tyrant,'  said  Fergus 
savagely,  glad  to  get  his  vexation  out  on  somebody. 

'  And  ye  dinna  like  the  college  ?  '  said  the  farmer  musingly. 

'No.  I'll  tell  you  what,  Mr.  Stewart;  I'm  going  away 
after  the  Fauld  folks  to  America,'  said  Fergus,  impelled  to 
confide  in  his  kind  friend.  '  I'm  sick  of  this  old  country. 
What  can  it  do  for  a  fellow  ?' 

'  It'll  do  ye  good,  Mr.  Fergus.  You'll  come  back,  and  think 
there's  nae  place  like  Scotland,'  said  the  farmer,  seeing  there 
was  something  amiss  with  the  lad.  '  No'  yet,  Nellie ;  up  the 
brae,  lass.1 

'  Oh,  there's  no  need,  Mr.  Stewart.     I  can  walk  perfectly.' 

'  I  ken,  but  I'll  drive  ye  up.  I've  nothing  to  do,  anyway,  in 
this  rain.  Up,  Nellie  I  Besides,  it's  a  pleasure  to  drive  ye.' 

Tlie  kind  word,  as  well  as  the  kind  action,  comforted  the  lad's 
sore  heart,  and  took  the  chill  edge  off  his  return  to  Amulree 


t4<3  SHEILA. 

He  talked  more  heartily  as  they  went  up  Ballinreich  Brae,  and 
parted  with  Mr.  Stewart  at  the  Keeper's  Wood  with  quite  his 
old  smile  and  ringing  laugh. 

1  ITl  come  down  and  give  you  a  day  at  the  hay  for  this,  Mr. 
Stewart.  It'll  keep  me  from  wearying,  anyway.' 

*  All  right ;  see  and  come,'  laughed  the  farmer,  as  he  drove  off; 
and  Fergus  walked  on  rapidly  to  Shonnen.  He  was  glad  he 
did  not  meet  anybody  on  the  road,  but  when  he  reached  the 
gate  of  Shonnen,  he  saw  his  mother  watching  for  him  at  the 
window.  She  was  on  the  doorstep  when  he  reached  it,  and  her 
eye  shone  as  it  fell  on  her  fine  young  son — shone  with  a 
motherly  pride  and  affection  which  were  perfectly  justifiable. 

1  How  are  you,  Fergus  ?  I  am  glad  you  have  come  home,1 
she  said,  as  she  shook  him  by  the  hand.  No  warmer  greeting 
than  the  hand-shake,  so  eminently  Scotch,  ever  passed  between 
them.  'You  are  early.  Did  you  get  a  drive  part  of  the 
way?' 

«  Yes,  Mr.  Stewart  of  Dalreoch  drove  me  from  Ballochraggan 
up,'  said  Fergus.  '  How  are  you,  mother  ?  I  hope  you  have  a 
good  tea.  Fm  perfectly  famished.' 

Ellen  Macleod  went  into  the  dining-room  with  a  more 
buoyant  step  than  usual,  and  a  look  of  pleased  satisfaction  on 
her  face.  Fergus's  home-coming  made  a  new  interest  in  her 
life. 

'  Angus  M'Bean  did  not  come  with  you  ? '  she  said,  as  they  sat 
down  to  tea. 

'No;  Angus  was  hardly  ready  to  come  home.  He  is  not 
behaving  himself  as  he  might,  mother.  The  lot  he  goes  with 
had  a  spree  last  night,  and  I  suppose  he  would  have  too  much.' 

'  You  never  keep  company  with  that  set,  I  hope,  Fergus  ? ' 

'  Not  I.  You've  only  to  look  at  me  to  know  that,'  replied 
Fergus,  with  his  mouth  full  'We'll  have  to  drop  M'Bean's 
nickname,  I  doubt.  He's  as  thin  as  a  rake  now.  Anything 
new  about  Amulree,  mother  ?  ' 

'  Nothing.  At  least,  I  don't  hear  it.  You  are  looking  well — 
not  like  a  hard  student.' 

'  I'm  not  a  hard  student,'  responded  Fergus  frankly.  '  Mother, 
I  hate  the  whole  thing  1  I  feel  perfectly  mad  listening  to  the 


HER  RESOLVE.  247 

old  professors  droning  away  about  things  I've  no  interest  in.  I 
can't  go  on  with  it.' 

'There  is  nothing  else  for  it,  my  son,'  said  Ellen  Macleod, 
with  a  peculiar  pressure  of  her  long,  thin  lips.  '  It  is  not  what 
you  like,  but  what  you  can  get  to  do,  with  you  now.' 

'Mother,  it's  a  perfect  waste  of  money,  for  I'm  perfectly 
certain  you  could,  as  soon  make  a  minister  out  of  Malcolm 
Menzies  as  me, — indeed,  sooner,  for  Rob  says  that  he  has  a  poet's 
soul,  whatever  that  may  be.  I'm  a  perfect  clod,  mother.  I'd 
rather  hire  to  be  a  shepherd  with  Dalreoch,  even,  than  go  on 
at  that  old  college.' 

'  There  is  no  use  bringing  up  that  vexed  old  question  again, 
Fergus,'  said  Ellen  Macleod.  '  Your  destiny  is  fixed,  and  you 
can't  shirk  it.  You  are  a  gentleman's  son,  and  though  circum- 
stances have  made  you  poor,  you  must  act  a  gentleman's  part. 
There  is  nothing  for  you  but  the  Church.' 

'  0  yes,  there  is,  mother.  Uncle  Graham  left  me  a  thousand 
pounds  to  stock  a  farm,  he  said,'  cried  Fergus,  alluding  to  his 
legacy  for  the  first  time.  'Mother,  I've  made  up  my  mind. 
I  think  Til  go  out  to  Canada  after  the  Fauld  folks.  A  thousand 
pounds  will  go  further  there  than  here,  and  there  is  no  distinc- 
tion. All  men  are  gentlemen  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic.' 

'Don't  talk  so  absurdly,  boy,'  said  Ellen  Macleod,  with  a 
touch  of  her  old  impatient  imperiousness.  '  Do  you  think  I 
would  ever  consent  to  your  joining  these  people?' 

Fergus  reddened,  and  his  brow  clouded.  Always  the  same  1 
Without  sympathy  or  commiseration  for  his  feelings,  or  aspira- 
tions, or  desires.  His  temper  rose  a  little,  for  the  Macdonald 
blood  was  hot,  and  he  had  reached  an  age  when  authority  is 
scarcely  tolerable.  His  mother  saw  the  struggle,  but  did  not 
even  admire  the  manliness  which  enabled  him  to  keep  silent  out 
of  respect  for  her.  She  was  a  strange  woman.  She  had  no 
interest,  or  tie,  indeed,  to  bind  her  to  life  but  her  one  son ;  and 
yet  she  took  a  pride  in  making  him  completely  subservient  to 
her  wilL  She  would  have  him  brave,  manly,  fearless,  in  every- 
thing and  towards  all  but  herself.  She  sought  from  the  man 
the  unquestioning  obedience  of  the  child.  Mistaken  woman  1 
She  would  live  to  regret  it.  A  certain  latitude  must  be  allowed 


248  SHEILA. 

to  youth ;  even  the  duty  of  the  child  to  the  parent  becomes 
sometimes  a  matter  to  be  settled  by  conscience.  There  are, 
alas  !  too  many  disobedient  children ;  but  there  are  also  incon- 
siderate, tyrannical  parents.  Ellen  Macleod  sought  to  be  a 
despot,  and,  though  her  kingdom  held  only  one  subject,  she  was 
to  find  it  a  hard  task  to  rule. 

A  love  of  power  is  inborn  in  women,  but  it  is  tempered  by 
the  loving-kindness  and  gentleness  of  womanhood.  But  the 
latter  had  never  been  characteristics  of  this  strong  daughter  of 
a  Highland  race.  We  will  watch  with  interest  the  struggle 
between  duty  and  inclination  in  the  breast  of  Fergus  Macleod. 


CHAPTER  XXVIIL 


COUSINS. 

And  life  is  thorny,  and  youth  is  vain, 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love 
Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain. 

COLERIDGE. 

I  HEEL  A,  upon  my  word,  you  are  the  loveliest  girl  I 
ever  saw.' 

'Oh,  Alastair  Murray,  you  stupid,  stupid  boy. 
I  think  I  shall  set  Tory  on  you.  I  don't 
think  Edinburgh  has  improved  you  one  single  bit.  Has  it, 
Tory?' 

Tory  wagged  his  tail  vigorously,  and  regarded  Alastair  with 
a  menacing  growl.  The  cousins  were  in  the  drawing-room  at 
Dalmore.  Alastair  had  just  ridden  up  on  his  pony  with  a 
message  from  his  mother  to  Sheila,  and,  being  impressed  by  the 
great  improvement  in  Sheila's  appearance,  had  given  vent  to 
his  rapturous  admiration  in  no  measured  terms. 

It  was  evident  Sheila  was  growing  up,  indeed,  for  at  her 
cousin's  praise  a  sweet,  conscious  flush  mantled  her  cheek. 
She  did  look  very  fair  in  her  pure  white  gown,  with  its  broad 
black  sash;  and  what  astonished  Alastair  most  of  all  was  that 
she  had  coiled  her  long  plaits  about  her  head,  and  made  her- 
self look  quite  a  woman. 

'  It's  true,  Sheila ;  you're  a  perfect  stunner  1     Be  quiet,  you 


2  5o  SHEILA. 

little  beast ! '  he  added  to  Tory,  who  sharpened  his  growl  into  a 
bark.  '  I  say,  Sheila,  what  a  lot  of  fellows  '11  be  sweet  upon 
you  immediately  1  /  am,  to  begin  with.' 

Sheila  laughed ;  and  the  sweet  sound  filled  the  old  room  with 
a  ringing  echo  of  gladness. 

'  Do  you  know  you  are  frightfully  vulgar,  Alastair  Murray  ? 
I  only  wish  Aunt  Ailsa  heard  you,  Is  that  what  she  sent  you 
to  say?' 

'  No ;  but  I  suppose  I  may  utter  a  few  words  on  my  own 
account,'  said  Alastair,  in  an  injured  voice.  '  You  needn't 
bother  being  stuck-up  with  me,  you  know,  Sheila,  because  I 
won't  stand  it.  Well,  my  mother  wants  to  know  when  you  are 
coming  over,  and  /  want  to  know  if  you  are  going  to  bury 
yourself  here  for  ever  ? ' 

Sheila's  bright  face  grew  grave  at  these  questions. 

*  I  am  very  busy  just  now,  Alastair.' 

*  Yes,  I  know.     You  are  the  little  old  woman  who  lived  in  a 
shoe,*  said  Alastair,  in  his  comical,  good-natured  way,  '  and  I 
suppose  we  are  of  no  account.     Are  we  related  to  you,  or  are 
we  not,  Miss  Murray  Macdonald  ? ' 

1  Oh,  Alastair,  do  be  serious  for  a  moment.  You  have  no 
idea  what  a  lot  I  have  to  do.  I  am  so  anxious  to  have  these 
houses  sorted  at  the  Fauld  before  winter,  and  unless  I  keep 
going  over  and  looking  after  it  myself,  there  is  nothing  done.' 

Alastair  looked  at  his  young  cousin  in  amazement.  She 
spoke  like  an  old  woman,  and  looked,  at  that  moment,  as  if 
the  whole  care  of  a  world  rested  on  her  slender  shoulders. 

'  But,  Sheila,  haven't  you  a  factor ?  "What's  the  use  of  all 
the  fellows  you  pay  to  do  your  work,  if  you  have  to  look  after 
them  ? '  he  asked  bluntly. 

'  You  don't  quite  understand,  and  it  would  take  too  long  to 
explain,  Alastair,'  said  Sheila,  smiling  again.  *  When  does 
Aunt  Ailsa  want  me  to  come  over  ? ' 

'  As  soon  as  you  can.  Cecily  and  Mabel  are  coming  from 
London.  Perhaps  that  may  induce  you,  if  you  won't  come  for 
us,'  said  Alastair  pointedly. 

'  Aunt  Ailsa  knows  I  would  rather  be  at  Murrayshaugh 
than  anywhere  else  in  the  world  except  here/  said  Sheila. 


COUSINS.  251 

'  But  I  will  come  over  and  stay  for  a  few  days  with  Cecily  nnd 
Mabel  very  soon.  When  are  they  coming?' 

'  To-morrow.  But  I  say,  Sheila,  are  you  really  going  to 
stay  here  now?  My  mother  says  she  thinks  you  are,  but  I 
didn't  believe  it.* 

1  Yes,  Alastair,  I  am  going  to  stay  here  now.  It  is  home,' 
said  Sheila,  and  her  eyes  grew  dim. 

4  How  queer  you  are !  Don't  you  care  for  dancing,  and  all 
the  fun  and  flirting  other  young  ladies  like?  for  you  are  a 
young  lady  now,  Sheila, — more's  the  pity.' 

'  I  like  fun  and  frolic  dearly,  Alastair ;  but  there  is  a  great 
deal  of  work  to  be  done  first,'  said  Sheila,  with  such  a  grave, 
preoccupied  face  that  Alastair  stared  yet  more.  To  him 
Sheila  was  a  great  mystery.  How  any  young  girl,  especially 
one  so  bright  and  beautiful  as  Sheila,  should  willingly  bury 
herself  in  a  place  like  Dalmore,  and  find  her  amusement  in 
the  worry  and  harassing  detail  of  estate  management,  was  a 
problem  he  could  not  set  himself  to  solve.  He  had  heard 
a  good  deal  about  Sheila  and  her  Quixotic  ideas  at  Murrays- 
haugh  and  from  outsiders,  but  Sheila  herself  perplexed  him 
profoundly. 

*  I  don't  know  what  will  become  of  you,  Sheila,'  he  said,  a 
trifle  hopelessly,  as  he  gnawed  the  head  of  his  riding  switch, 
and  mentally  wished  he  could  make  growling  Tory  feel  the 
weight  of  it.     Tory  evidently  felt  the  weight  of  his  responsi- 
bility, and  did  not  approve  of  seeing  a  young  gentleman  in  the 
Dalmore  drawing-room,  especially  when  he  expressed  himself 
with  such  unblushing  candour. 

Big,  good  -  natured  Alastair  had  a  curious  vein  of  soft 
sentiment  in  his  nature,  and  he  had  always  been  in  love  with 
his  pretty  cousin.  I  fear  he  was  now  to  learn  that  that  early 
love-making  on  the  bonnie  banks  of  the  Logie  was  to  have  for 
him  a  more  serious  side. 

*  When  will  you  come,  Sheila,  so  that  I  may  fetch  you  ? ' 
'I'll  send  a  note  over,  Alastair.     I  can't  fix  a  day  until  I  get 

things  in  order  for  my  absence,'  said  Sheila,  with  that  delightful 
gravity  which  sat  so  quaintly  upon  her.  '  Won't  you  have 
anything  to  eat  after  your  long  ride  ? ' 


252  SHEILA. 

'No,  thanks;  just  rose  from  dinner.  Upon  my  word,  Sheila. 
1  can't  get  over  the  change  in  you.' 

'  I  must  say  the  same  of  you.  You  are  such  a  big  man. 
We're  all  grown-up,'  laughed  Sheila.  '  If  you  will  excuse  me 
for  a  little,  Alastair,  I  will  put  on  my  habit  and  ride  down  as 
far  as  Ballinreich  with  you.  There  are  some  sick  babies  there 
1  want  to  ask  for.  Scarlet  fever,  I  fear,  but  I  hope  not.' 

1  All  right.  I  don't  care  what  it  is,  as  long  as  it  takes  you  to 
Ballinreich,  and  I  can  ride  by  you,'  said  Alastair  daringly. 
Sheila  shook  her  ringer  at  him  as  she  ran  out  of  the  room. 

She  did  not  keep  him  waiting  long,  and  when  she  returned, 
in  her  dainty  habit,  with  her  bright,  long  plaits  as  of  yore 
hanging  to  her  waist,  and  the  very  smartest  of  little  hats,  just 
far  enough  off  her  head  to  shew  the  bright  little  ringlets  on 
her  brow,  Alastair  was  hopelessly  'done  for;'  and  to  the  end 
of  his  days  he  never  saw  any  one  equal  to  Sheila,  though  he 
was  obliged  to  admire  her  from  a  cousinly  distance.  Sheila 
was  not  a  coquette,  and  her  cousin's  undisguised  admiration 
rather  disconcerted  her.  She  knew  she  was  fair, — her  mirror 
told  her  so  every  day, — and  she  was  glad,  as  she  had  a  right  to 
be,  to  think  she  was  pleasant  to  look  upon,  but  she  was  neither 
vain  nor  affected ;  a  perfect  naturalness  was  the  child's  chief 
charm.  Half  child,  half  woman,  she  was  wholly,  irresistibly 
winning. 

1  Have  you  seen  Macleod  since  he  came  home  ? '  asked 
Alastair,  as  they  cantered  down  the  hill. 

'  No,'  answered  Sheila ;  and  perhaps  it  was  the  exertion  she 
was  making  to  keep  her  pony  in  curb  that  brought  the  vivid 
flu>h  to  her  cheek. 

4  Poor  Macleod !  I'm  sorry  for  him.  He's  a  fine  chap,  Sheila. 
Don't  you  believe  any  one  who  tells  you  anything  else.' 

Sheila  could  have  laughed  right  out,  but  her  lips  only  curved 
in  a  curious  little  smile. 

'  And  you  know  it's  awful  rough  on  a  fellow,  I  always  say,  to 
have  a  mother  like  yon,'  said  Alastair,  pointing  over  to  Shonnen, 
which  looked  dark  in  the  strong  shadow  of  Craig  Hulich. 
'  What  do  you  suppose  is  to  become  of  Macleod,  Sheila  ?  It 
won't  be  very  easy  for  him  to  settle  down  in  Strathbraan  as  a 


COUSINS.  253 

farmer,  though  I've  heard  him  speak  of  it.  His  mother  means 
him  to  ^e  a  minister,  but  I  can't  fancy  Macleod  in  the  pulpit. 
Car,  you  ? ' 

'No,'  answered  Sheila,  and  her  face  was  averted.  She  could 
not  understand  why  it  made  her  feel  so  strangely  to  hear 
another  speak  of  Fergus,  since  scarcely  an  hour  of  the  day 
passed  when  she  did  not  think  of  him. 

'Poor  beggar!  I  am.  sorry  for  him.  He's  dreadfully  cut  up 
and  down  in  the  mouth  sometimes,'  continued  Alastair,  regaling 
Sheila's  cousinly  ear  with  scraps  from  his  college  repertoire.  '  I 
really  can't  for  the  life  of  me  think  what's  to  become  of  him. 
Can  you  ? ' 

Poor  Alastair  1  He  was  utterly  unconscious  that  he  was 
probing  a  sore,  sore  wound  in  his  cousin's  heart. 

'  I  daresay  he  will  find  a  place,'  she  said,  with  difficulty,  and 
rather  shortly,  for  she  could  hardly  bear  what  Alastair  was 
saying.  It  brought  back  all  the  old  wretched  feeling  that  she 
had  no  right  in  Dalmore,  and  that  she  had  done  a  mortal  wrong 
to  Fergus  Macleod. 

'  He's  a  splendid  fellow,  Fergus.  He  always  says  he  has  no 
head  ;  but  old  Rolling  Pin — that's  our  mathematical  professor — 
told  the  governor  once  that  he  had  a  splendid  head,  but  wanted 
application.  Fact  is,  Sheila,  he's  rather  put  upon  all  round. 
Hulloa  I  what  are  you  crying  for? ' 

'  I  wish  you'd  hold  your  tongue  about  Fergus  Macleod ! '  cried 
Sheila  indignantly.  '  If  you've  nothing  else  to  talk  about,  you 
can  ride  on  by  yourself.' 

Alastair  whistled. 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,  Sheila.  How  in  the  world  was  I  to 
know  Fergus  and  you  weren't  sailing  in  the  same  boat  ? '  he 
said,  plunging  deeper  into  the  mire,  and  blissfully  unconscious 
of  it.  '  He's  a  little  priggish  and  queer  when  you  come  to  think 
of  it,  though  the  best  fellow  I  know.  I  say,  what  times  we'll 
have  when  you  come  over  I  Are  they  jolly  girls,  the  Desarts, 
Sheila?  You  should  know  them,  when  you  were  at  the  same 
school.' 

'  Yes,  they  are  very  nice.  I  am  sorry  I  spoke  so  quickly, 
Alastair,'  said  Sheila,  turning  to  him  with  a  lovely  smile,  which 


»S4  SHEILA. 

would  have  melted  a  much  harder  heart  than  his.  '  I  am  afraid 
I  am  cross  and  horrid,  but  I  didn't  mean  to  be.' 

'  Oh,  come  now,  Sheila,  don't  make  me  feel  perfectly  ashamed,' 
said  Alastair.  '  I've  enough  to  bear  with  the  pride  I  feel  at 
riding  with  such  a  fine  young  lady.  You  sit  splendidly,  Sheila, 
and  what  a  pretty  beast  you  have.' 

'  Papa  bought  it  for  my  birthday  just  the  week  before  he 
died.  Cameron  told  me,  the  last  time  he  was  able  to  be  out  of 
bed  was  to  go  to  the  library  window  to  see  Rob  Roy  when  he 
was  brought  home,'  said  Sheila,  in  a  low  voice,  and  with  a 
yearning  look  in  her  soft  grey  eyes,  which  told  Alastair  how 
much  she  still  missed  the  dead. 

'  Never  mind,'  he  said  quite  tenderly,  and  laid  his  big  hand 
on  Rob  Roy's  glossy  neck,  to  show  sympathy  for  his  mistress. 
'  Well  have  as  jolly  a  time  as  we  ever  had  in  our  lives  when 
you  come  over  to  Murrayshaugh.' 

Sheila  nodded,  and  they  rode  through  Amulree  in  silence ;  a 
handsome,  well-matched  pair,  as  more  than  one  said  who  saw 
them  go  by. 

It  was  a  lovely  evening,  the  close  of  a  perfect  August  day. 
The  moors  were  purpling  for  the  Twelfth,  and  even  on  these 
high  lands  there  was  a  yellow  tinge  on  the  standing  corn,  which 
promised  an  early  harvest.  As  they  cantered  up  the  slope  by 
the  Keeper's  Wood,  and  swept  round  to  the  brow  of  Ballinreich 
Brae,  the  whole  strath  opened  out  before  them  a  vision  of  beauty, 
with  the  green  meadows  and  golden  fields  on  either  side  of  the 
river  sloping  up  to  the  heather  hills,  which  hemmed  it  in.  The 
atmosphere  was  gloriously  clear,  and  there  was  not  even  a  haze 
of  heat  to  obscure  the  view,  and  they  could  see,  beyond  the  green 
stretches  of  the  Athole  woods,  the  dark  face  of  Craigybarns, 
with  its  fir-crowned  crest  seeming  to  touch  the  pearly  clouds. 

'  Confess  now,  Sheila,  Strathbraan  is  far  bonnier  than  Glen- 
quaich,'  said  Alastair  teasingly ;  but  Sheila  shook  her  head. 

'  It  is  pretty  looking  down,  and  Craigybarns  and  Birnam  Hill 
are  fine,  but  there  is  no  loch,  and  the  hills  don't  seem  so  majestic 
as  ours.' 

'  You  adore  Glenqnaich,  Sheila.  I  think  it  a  heathenish  sort 
of  place,  though  Fergus  says  there  is  good  fishing  in  the  lochs,' 


COUSINS.  255 

said  Alastair.  '  Oh,  you  go  off  here,  do  you  ?  Well,  don't 
catch  scarlet  fever  or  anything  to  prevent  you  coming  over, 
mind.' 

Sheila  laughed,  and  held  out  her  hand,  which  Alastair  took 
with  a  flourish,  and  in  fun  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

'  Dancing  and  deportment  a  la  Francais,  taught  here,'  he 
laughed.  'Good-bye.  I  never  saw  anybody  so  jolly  as  you, 
Sheila.' 

'  You  are  very  jolly  too,  when  you  are  not  stupid,'  said  Sheila, 
with  her  sweetest  smile,  for  she  really  liked  Alastair,  who  had 
always  been  kind  to  her  at  Murrayshaugh. 

So  they  parted,  and  Sheila  rode  slowly  up  the  side  of  a 
barley  field  to  the  clachan  of  Ballinreich,  and,  leaving  her  pony 
in  charge  of  a  village  urchin,  entered  the  house  where  the 
children  were  sick.  Somebody  watched  all  her  movements  with 
an  interest  of  which  she  was  quite  unconscious.  Fergus  was 
strolling  up  General  Wade's  old  road  behind  the  Keeper's  Wood, 
and  from  the  hill  had  seen  the  riders  on  the  road,  had  heard 
their  merry  laughter,  and  observed  the  apparent  tenderness  of 
their  parting.  He  was  still  in  a  restless,  moody,  irritable  state 
of  mind,  inclined  to  be  at  war  with  himself  and  all  the  world, 
and  when  he  saw  Sheila  and  Alastair  apparently  so  thoroughly 
satisfied  with  each  other,  it  gave  him  a  kind  of  grim  pleasure. 
Nobody  cared  anything  for  him  ;  even  Sheila  never  gave  him  a 
thought.  Of  course,  Alastair  had  no  more  to  do  than  woe 
and  he  would  win,  being  one  of  the  luckiest  fellows  in  the  world. 
After  Sheila  went  up  to  Ballinreich,  he  threw  himself  in  the 
heather,  :md  started  the  grouse,  who  flew  up  with  a  whirr  and 
a  croak  of  alarm.  Curiously  enough,  he  had  chosen  a  spot  from 
which  he  could  have  unobserved  a  full  view  of  the  clachan,  and 
could  see  Sheila  when  she  came  out  of  the  house.  When  she 
did  so,  and  mounted  her  pony,  he  picked  himself  up  rather 
quickly,  for,  instead  of  turning  back  the  way  she  had  come,  she 
came  slowly  riding  up  the  old  road,  and  would  see  him  which- 
ever way  he  liked  to  turn.  They  had  never  met  since  that  re- 
markable night  after  Macdonald's  burying,  though  they  had 
thought  a  great  deal  more  about  each  other  than  either  knew. 
Sheila  had  not  come  far  up  the  old  road  when  she  saw  Fergus  on 


356  SHEILA. 

the  hill,  and  he  noticed  her  give  a  start,  an<l  pull  up  lu-r  pouy 
as  if  he  had  stumbled  on  a  stone.  He  came  slowly  over  the 
heather  to  the  road,  and  lifted  his  cap  when  he  was  within  a 
few  yards  of  her. 

4  Good-evening,  Miss  Murray  Macdonald,'  he  said,  not 
knowing  what  evil  thing  prompted  him  to  call  her  by  her 
formal  name.  She  flushed  all  over,  and  then  became  quite  pale. 
But  she  drew  herself  up  in  her  saddle,  and,  instead  of  extending 
her  hand,  she  merely  acknowledged  him  by  a  distant  little  bow. 
Sheila  showed  very  clearly  that  there  was  more  of  the  woman 
than  the  child  about  her  now.  His  greeting  had  hurt  her 
sharply,  but  her  pride  came  to  the  rescue. 

'  Are  you  not  afraid  to  trust  your  pony  on  these  abominable 
hill  paths  ? '  Fergus  asked,  as  he  walked  by  her  side. 

*  Rob  Roy  is  very  sure-footed,'  Sheila  answered  stiffly,  still 
holding  herself  very  straight,  her  sweet  face  white  and  cold- 
looking.  But  there  was  a  blinding  mist  before  her  eyes, 
and  she  was  obliged  to  keep  her  lashes  down  to  hide  it. 

'I  saw  Murray  up.  He  didn't  think  it  worth  his  while  to 
call  at  Shonnen,  though  he  and  I  are  supposed  to  be  friendly,' 
said  Fergus,  with  bitterness. 

4  It  was  my  blame,  perhaps  ; — he  brought  me  a  message  from 
Aunt  Ailsa,  and  I  offered  to  ride  as  far  as  Ballinreich  with  him,' 
said  Sheila  quietly ;  but  Fergus  only  gave  a  grunt.  Sheila 
looked  at  him  in  sheer  amazement.  What  had  come  over  him  ? 
She  had  thought  when  she  saw  him,  what  a  delightful  talk  they 
might  have  over  old  limes,  and  what  a  pleasure  it  would  be  to 
tell  him  all  she  was  doing  and  planning  for  Glenquaich.  She 
could  not  help  thinking,  girl-like,  in  the  midst  of  her  distressed 
perplexity,  what  a  handsome,  manly  fellow  he  had  grown, 
handsomer  even  than  Alastair,  who  was  called  '  Murray's  braw 
son'  in  Strathlogie. 

They  moved  on  in  perfect  silence  until  they  left  the  hill  path 
and  were  out  on  the  road  again.  Then  Fergus  stopped. 

'  Good-bye,  then,'  he  said,  standing  still,  and  lifting  his 
defiant  eyes  to  Sheila's  sweet  face.  He  hated  himself,  he  hated 
her,  he  hated  all  the  world  at  that  moment,  poor  fellow  !  Life 
seemed  so  hard  :  it  held  nothing  for  him  but  vexations  and  dis- 


COUSINS.  «57 

appointment  and  despair.  He  thought  the  very  people-  in  tin- 
Glen  had  turned  against  him,  and  that  they  had  given  their 
whole  love  and  allegiance  to  Sheila;  and  yet,  as  he  looked  at  the 
sweet,  dear  young  face  bent  upon  him  so  anxiously,  and  even 
imploringly,  he  longed  to  ask  her  to  forgive  him,  even  to  be 
again  to  him  the  Sheila  of  old.  To  his  distorted  imagination 
she  seemed  changed  ;  in  leality,  the  change  was  wholly  with 
him. 

'  I  hope  I  shall  see  you  again,  Fergus,'  she  said,  and  offered 
her  hand ;  but  he  did  not  take  it. 

'No,  you  won't;  I'm  going  away,'  he  answered  almost 
rudely. 

4  Where  to  ?  '  asked  Sheila,  with  startled  eyes. 

4  Anywhere, — to  the  devil,  perhaps,'  was  his  extraordinary 
reply,  and  without  another  word  he  strode  awaj. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 


SCHEMING   STILL. 

An'  oil !  it  was  a  goodly  tree 
I  socht  to  mak'  a  biggin*  o'. 


OLD  SONG. 


N  the  factor's  business-room  at   Auchloy  sat  Angus 
M'Bean  and  his  hopeful  son,  in  the  grey  dusk  of  an 
August    evening.     They  were  both    smoking,   and 
had  grown  a  little  confidential  over  their  pipes, 
it's  true  that  Macleod  is  going   to   America,'  said   the 
'  there's  nothing  in  the  way ;  you  have  the  ball  at  your 
feet.' 

'And  suppose  I  don't  want  to  kick  it?1  said  young  Angus, 
as  he  blew  the  smoke-wreaths  gracefully  over  his  red  head,  and 
turned  his  sallow  countenance  towards  his  father. 

'  Oh,  but  you  will  kick  it,  unless  you  are  a  perfect  fool,'  said 
the  factor,  assisting  himself  to  a  mouthful  of  perry.  '  It's 
not  a  position  to  be  despised.  Unless  you're  a  perfect  fool,  as 
I  said,  you'd  rather  be  a  laird  than  a  factor.' 

'That's  quite  true;  but  it  strikes  me  the  ball  would  need  a 
prodigious  amount  of  effort  even  to  set  it  going,'  said  Puddin' 
reflectively.  *  In  the  first  place,  she  won't  even  speak  to  me 
She  looks  at  me  as  if  I  were  dirt.' 

'  Oh,  nonsense  I    Miss  Murray  Macdonald  is  too  well  bred  a 


SCHEMING  STILL.  259 

young  lady  to  do  that,'  corrected  the  factor  blandly.  '  Angus, 
Fm  convinced  that  I've  pursued  the  wrong  tactics  for  a  while. 
It  never  does  to  oppose  a  woman,  even  a  very  young  one.  I 
began  by  trying  to  circumvent  Miss  Murray  Macdonald,  and  in 
the  end  she  circumvented  me.  Think  of  the  young  chit  making 
herself  mistress  of  all  her  legal  rights  and  privileges  before  she 
made  a  move !  I  tell  you,  Angus,  such  a  woman  is  worth  the 
winning.' 

'  She'd  wear  the  breeks,'  said  Angus  plainly  ;  '  at  least,  she'd 
try.  But  if  it  was  me  she  had  to  deal  with  there  would  be  a 
tough  squabble.  And  so  you  think  I  might  make  myself  Laird 
of  Dalmore?  Well,  it  would  be  a  fine  position;  but  I've  no 
chance  beside  Macleod.' 

'  Nonsense  1  besides,  he's  going  away.  I  must  give  you  a  piece 
of  advice.  You  must  flatter  her,  and  take  a  consuming  interest 
in  all  her  fads.  Women  swallow  flattery  the  same  as  calves 
swallow  milk — wholesale,  and  when  you  do  become  master  of 
Dalmore,  you  can  put  your  foot  on  all  these  little  plans.  Just 
think !  after  all  my  worry  and  trouble  with  these  Fauld  folks, 
she  has  made  up  her  mind  to  build  it  up  into  a  flourishing 
community  again.  She  doesn't  approve  of  me,  I  can  tell  you ; 
but  she's  fixed ;  she  can't  put  me  off  for  three  years  yet, — at 
least,  she  won't,  because  the  old  man  expressed  the  wish  that  I 
should  stay.  A  lot  can  be  done  in  three  years,  lad.' 

'You're  right;  but  suppose  I  was  willing  to  court  Miss 
Murray  Macdonald, — mind,  I  don't  say  I  am,  but  supposing  I 
was, — how  am  I  to  begin  ?  There  is  a  gulf  between  Auchloy  and 
Dalmore.' 

The  factor  screwed  his  face  up  into  a  knowing  wink. 

'  When  I  was  two-and-twenty  I  didn't  need  a  hint  about 
courting,'  he  said,  with  an  ill-favoured  smile.  'If  you  want 
chances  you  can  make  them.  She's  never  out  of  the  Fauld. 
What's  to  hinder  you  meeting  her  accidentally  there,  and  taking 
a  deep  interest  in  all  that's  going  on  ? ' 

TU  think  about  it,'  said  Puddin',  with  rather  a  pleased, 
expectant  expression  on  his  face.  The  idea  pleased  him.  He 
was  bound  to  admire  Sheila,  as  every  one  did,  and  the  thought 
of  making  love  to  her  was  rather  exciting.  He  was  by  no 


26o  SHEILA. 

means  a  novice  in  the  art  of  love-making,  both  at  home  and  ir. 
town.  He  had,  indeed,  a  love  affair  going  on  in  the  Glen  jusi 
then,  but  he  did  not  mind  having  two  strings  to  his  bow. 
Puddin'  was  an  enterprising  youth,  and  filled  to  the  brim  with 
consummate  conceit  and  confidence  in  himself. 

'  There's  a  lot  of  nests  in  Achnafauld  I  would  like  herried,' 
said  the  factor.  '  That  Malcolm  Menzies,  I  hate  the  very  sight 
of  him.  If  the  auld  wife  were  dead  I'd  fix  him  up.' 

'  You  can't,'  said  Puddin'  serenely ;  '  because  Sheila  has 
taken  them  up.  Look  what  she's  done  for  them  this  summer 
already.' 

'True  enough,  she  has  done  a  lot.  If  old  Macfarlane  had 
been  anything  but  a  gomeril,  I  would  have  had  the  whole 
thing  done,  and  the  estate  in  splendid  working  order.  What 
does  a  minister  know  about  business?  She  just  winds  him 
round  her  little  finger.  I  whiles  wonder,  Angus,  whether 
the  Laird  had  any  inkling  how  things  would  turn  out,  and 
whether  he  did  it  all  to  torment  me.  It  was  a  queer  will, 
wasn't  it?' 

'It  did  for  Macleod,  anyway,  the  insufferable  prig!'  said 
Angus  savagely.  There  was  not  much  love  lost  between  him 
and  Fergus  Macleod.  '  I  won't  believe  he's  off  to  America,  till 
I  hear  he  has  arrived  there.' 

'I  hope  hell  go.  He  might  stand  in  your  way,'  said  the 
factor  cautiously. 

'  He  would  if  he  could,  but  he  never  goes  near  Dalmore.' 

'  No ;  there's  a  dryness,  thank  goodness  1  between  Shonnen  and 
Dalmore,  Fergus  Macleod's  wife,  whoever  she  may  be,  will 
have  an  ill  time  of  it  with  his  mother.' 

'  I'm  mair  frightened  for  the  Murrays,  I  confess,  than  Fergus 
or  his  mother,'  continued  the  factor,  after  another  sip  at  his 
tumbler.  '  They'll  look  sharply  after  their  niece,  I'm  thinking. 
I  saw  young  Murray  up  not  long  ago.  If  they  make  a  match 
of  it,  we're  done  for,  lad,' 

*  They  won't,  if  I  can  help  it  IT!  make  myself  sweet  to  Miss 
Sheila,  first  chance  I  get,'  said  Puddin',  as  he  pushed  back  his 
chair,  and  gave  his  fine  collar  a  pull  up.  '  Anything  to  kill  the 
time ;  it's  a  dull  hole  this  for  a  fellow.' 


SC HEM  IMC  S1JLL.  261 

4  Why  don't  you  shoot  and  fish,  like  other  young  men  ? ' 
asked  nis  father. 

'  Too  much  of  a  bore,  and  mighty  hard  work  besides/  said 
Angus,  with  a  yawn.  '  I'll  away  and  take  a  stroll  up  to  the 
Fauld,  and  see  if  I  can  fall  in  with  Malcolm  Menzies ;  it  is 
good  fun. to  raise  his  birse,  and  it  needs  mighty  little  raising 
sometimes.  The  fellow's  more  than  half  mad.  He  should  be 
down  at  Murthly.  I  must  tell  him  that.' 

1  You'd  better  not  go  too  far  with  him.  He  had  a  graip  up 
at  me  the  other  day.  When  the  passion's  on  him,  he  does  not 
care  what  he  does.' 

'  Fm  not  afraid  of  him,'  said  Angus,  as  he  slouched  indolently 
out  of  the  room.  The  factor  was  disappointed  in  his  son,  who 
had  not  turned  out  the  smart  lad  he  had  hoped  and  expected  him 
to  be.  Not  but  that  he  was  smart  and  dandified  enough  in  his 
appearance,  and  his  tailor's  bills  were  heavier  than  his  class  fees, 
but  he  had  not  as  yet  displayed  any  brilliance  of  intellect,  or 
even  an  ordinary  business  capacity.  So  to  marry  him  to  Sheila 
Macdonald  was  the  present  dream  of  the  ambitious  factor's  days. 
The  two  girls  at  Auchloy  were  miserable  when  their  amiable 
brother  was  at  home,  and  there  were  quarrellings  in  the  house 
from  morning  till  night.  He  was  always  jibing  and  jeering 
at  them,  and  playing  all  sorts  of  unmanly  tricks  upon  them. 
Poor  Mrs.  M'Bean  was  sorely  exercised  by  her  grown-up  family, 
and  thought  regretfully  of  the  days  when  they  were  bairns  at 
her  knee, — they  hardly  repaid  her  now  for  the  toil  of  that 
early  time. 

Puddin'  lounged  out  of  the  house  with  a  Tarn  o'  Shanter  stuck 
on  the  back  of  his  red  head,  and,  still  smoking,  sauntered  up 
the  road  to  the  Fauld.  It  was  after  sundown,  and  a  bonnie 
harvest  moon  was  rising  above  Crom  Creagh,  making  a  soft, 
soothing,  exquisite  light  over  purple  moor  and  placid  loch ;  but 
Puddin'  had  no  soul  to  admire  any  of  nature's  fair  pictures. 
He  hated  Auchloy,  and  but  for  one  attraction  could  have 
wished  to  turn  his  back  for  ever  on  Glenquaich.  The  clachan 
was  very  quiet,  though  a  subdued  hum  from  the  smiddy  greeted 
Angus  as  he  passed  by  the  end  of  Rob  Macnaughton's  house. 
HP  walked  leisurely  up  over  the  bridge  and  down  the  back  way 


z62  SHEILA. 

to  Janet  Menzies'  cottage,  which  he  entered  without  ceremony, 
as  if  he  were  a  privileged  visitor. 

1  That's  you,  wee  M'Bean  I '  cried  the  invalid  woman's  shrill 
voice,  the  moment  his  foot  crossed  the  threshold.  '  Katie's  no' 
in,  so  ye  needna  fash  comin'  further.  An'  if  she  wad  dae  my 
biddin',  she  wadna  speak  to  ye  though  she  were  in.  Ye  come 
o'  an  ill  kind.' 

'  Yes ;  but  I'm  an  improvement  on  the  old  stock,  Jenny,'  said 
Angus  slyly,  as  he  put  his  head  round  the  door.  'Tell  me 
where  Katie  is,  like  a  good  old  soul !  * 

'  No,  I  winua.  If  she  needs  a  convoy  Malky  can  gang  for 
her.  If  he  heard  ye  speerin'  for  her  he'd  break  yer  back 
for  ye.' 

'  There  would  be  two  at  that,  Jenny,'  said  Puddin',  in  his 
bragging  way.  '  So  she's  out  of  the  clachan,  that  she  needs  a 
convoy  ?  Ye've  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag  already.' 

'  Have  I  ?  I  didna  say  east  or  wast,'  said  the  old  woman 
shrewdly.  '  Awa  ye  go ;  ye  are  ower  like  yer  faither  to  be  a 
bonnie  sicht.' 

1  You  ought  to  be  glad  of  my  company  when  they're  all  out,' 
said  Puddin',  edging  a  little  further  in.  'Don't  you  weary 
lying  there?' 

« Weary?  Od  ay ;  but  what's  that  to  them  ?  I'll  no'  be  lang 
noo.  I  telt  Katie  the  day  that  she  widna  be  lang  or  she'd  hae 
anither  errand  to  Shian.  I'll  no'  see  the  winter.' 

'  No  fear  of  you !  you're  as  lively  as  ever,  Jenny,'  said  Angus, 
with  a  quiet  chuckle,  for  she  had  unwittingly  let  out  that  Katie 
was  away  to  Shian.  '  Well,  I  won't  bide  to  bother  you.  Tell 
Malcolm  I  was  asking  for  him.' 

And,  with  a  grin,  Puddin'  took  himself  off.  He  went  down  to 
the  loch  side,  and  stood  for  a  moment  debating  which  way  to 
go,  but  probably  Katie  would  come  home  by  Garrows,  for  the 
old  road  on  the  other  side  of  the  loch  led  through  a  lonely 
wood,  which  would  be  rather  gruesome  after  nightfall.  He  had 
just  decided  to  take  the  Garrows  road  when  he  saw  Malcolm 
coming  over  the  bridge  from  Kinloch,  and  stopped  to  have  a 
word  with  him.  He  took  a  curious  delight  in  aggravating  poor 
Malcolm,  who  seemed  to  grow  more  moody  and  strange  every 


SCHEMING  STILL.  263 

day.  Even  Bob,  his  faithful  friend  and  sympathizer,  sometimes 
feared  the  lad  was  going  clean  out  of  his  senses. 

'Fine  night,  Sir  Malcolm,'  said  Angus  banteringly,  the 
moment  he  was  within  hearing.  'Looking  over  your  extensive 
policies,  eh?  Many  pheasants  on  your  moors,  eh?  Would 
you  give  me  a  shot  for  the  First  ? ' 

'Maybe  I  will,  Puddin'  M'Bean,'  said  Malcolm,  with  a 
strange,  slow  smile;  and  he  fixed  his  gleaming  eyes,  with  a 
curious,  furtive  look,  on  the  other's  face. 

'A  thousand  thanks,  but  I  should  not  dare  to  intrude  myself 
on  Sir  Malcolm  and  his  distinguished  company  of  friends,'  said 
Puddin',  laughing  at  his  own  poor  attempt  at  wit.  '  But  you've 
got  round  the  soft  side  of  Miss  Murray  Macdonald.  My !  what 
a  fine  steading  you  are  getting !  What  if  you  set  a  match  to 
it  some  night  when  you  are  in  one  of  your  tantrums  ? ' 

'Ay,  what  if  I  did  that,  eh?  It  would  be  a  bonnie  lowe,' 
said  Malcolm  quietly ;  but  his  clenched  hands  were  beginning 
to  tremble,  and  the  anger  was  rising  within  him. 

'  You'd  find  yourself  in  Perth  Penitentiary,  or  maybe  in 
Murthly  Asylum,  if  you  tried  anything  of  the  kind ;  but  maybe 
there  are  worse  places  than  Murthly  for  the  like  of  you,'  said 
Angus,  with  a  cruel,  sneering  smile.  Instantly  the  blood  rushed 
to  Malcolm's  face,  and,  with  a  muttered  exclamation,  he  stooped 
down  and  picked  up  a  huge  stone  to  hurl  at  his  tormentor. 
But  Angus  was  too  quick  for  him,  and,  with  a  light  laugh,  he 
dodged  round  the  end  of  the  house,  and  cut  across  the  burn, 
and  out  to  the  road.  Malcolm,  still  muttering,  and  with  his 
face  convulsively  working,  followed  more  slowly,  but  when  he 
got  round  the  corner  Angus  was  out  of  sight.  Poor  Malcolm 
Menzies !  The  struggling  gleams  of  intellect,  which  Bob 
Macnaughton  had  hoped  would  grow  brighter  and  clearer, 
until  manhood  and  the  full  knowledge  of  his  own  inherent 
power  would  finally  disperse  the  dark  cloud  which  seemed 
to  obscure  the  lad's  mind,  were  becoming  dim  and  far 
between.  Manhood  brought  no  joy  to  the  poor  half-wit,  no 
glorious  sense  of  mental  or  physical  strength.  It  seemed  rather 
to  cast  a  deeper  shadow  on  his  heart.  Even  the  Fauld  folks 
somewhat  feared  him  at  times,  and  bade  the  bairns  steer  clear 


a64  SHEILA. 

of  him.  Poor  Malcolm !  he  would  as  soon  have  harmed  a  chile 
as  one  of  his  own  lambs,  who  knew  his  very  voice  and  step. 
Katie  was  the  only  one  who  could  manage  him  rightly,  and  he 
worshipped  her. 

If  he  had  the  poet's  soul,  as  Rob  had  so  often  held,  it  had 
never  found  a  voice.  He  had  grown  tired  of  books,  and  even 
the  rude  music  of  the  Gaelic  had  lost  its  charm.  But  who 
could  tell  what  mystic  music  the  lad's  soul  felt  and  responded 
to  out  among  the  mountain  solitudes,  where  the  ripple  of  the 
burn  or  the  shrill  call  of  the  curlew  were  the  only  audible 
sounds  ?  He  loved  these  wilds,  and  avoided  more  than  ever 
the  haunts  and  presence  of  men.  Even  his  kind  old  friend 
the  stocking-weaver  saw  him  but  seldom. 

"With  his  hands  thrust  into  his  trousers  pockets,  he  looked 
into  the  house. 

'  Where's  Katie  ?  '  he  asked  his  aunt. 

'  Oh,  ye  ken,  ower  to  speer  for  Tarn  Burns  at  Wester  Shian. 
There  was  a  lad  speerin'  for  her  enow,  and  that'll  be  mean  in*  to 
gie  her  a  convoy.' 

'  Puddin'  M'Bean  ? '  asked  Malcolm  angrily. 

'  Maybe,  an'  maybe  no' ;  an'  if  it  was,  can  the  lassie  no'  hae 
u  lad  without  you  at  her  heels,  Malcolm  Menzies?  Ye  are  a 
bonnie  lad  to  tie  yer  sister  up  like  that.' 

'  Did  ye  tell  him  Katie  was  at  Shian  ? ' 

'  Maybe  I  did,  an'  maybe  I  didna.  Come  in  an'  shut  the 
door,  an'  pit  on  some  peats.  I'm  starvin'  lyin'  here.' 

But  Malcolm  paid  no  heed.  The  very  thought  that  Puddin' 
M'Bean  should  dare  to  go  to  meet  Katie  filled  him  with  a 
burning  indignation,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  was  walking  with 
long  strides  away  west  from  the  Fauld. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


LOVERS     YOUNG     DKKAM. 

The  merle  said,  Love  is  cause  of  honour  aye, 
Love  makeis  cowards  manhood  to  purchase. 

WILLIAM  DTINBAK. 

[jBOUT  half-way  between  AucHoy  and  the  bridge  at 
Shian  Angus  M'Bean  met  Katie.  He  heard  her, 
before  he  saw  her,  crooning  a  love-song  to  herself, 
as  she  came  swiftly  on,  not  in  the  least  timid 
though  it  was  dark,  but  anxious  to  be  home  for  her  aunt's 
sake.  Katie  might  be  thoughtless  at  times,  but  she  had  a 
warm,  kind  heart.  She  had  on  her  Sunday  gown,  a  fine  brown 
merino,  made  with  a  full  skirt  and  a  pointed  bodice,  cut  open 
at  the  neck,  where  lay  the  white  folds  of  the  kerchief  Katie 
wore  with  such  sweetness  and  grace.  Her  hat  was  over  her 
arm,  and  the  night  wind  was  playing  at  will  with  her  bonnic 
hair,  and  her  fair  cheek  was  flushed  with  the  healthful  exercise 
of  her  quick,  steady  walk.  Katie  had  grown  a  little  vain  of 
late,  for  folks  were  aye  tolling  her  how  bonnie  she  was,  and, 
poor  lassie !  she  had  no  gentle  mother  to  warn  her  not  to  lay 
such  flattery  to  heart.  But  with  all  her  little  airs  and  conceits 
she  was  wholly  winsome  and  loveable;  and  Angus  M'Bean,  the 
factor's  son,  had  begun  to  think  more  seriously  about  her  than 
be  had  ever  thought  about  anybody  in  his  life.  And  Katie? 


266  SHEILA. 

Had  the  years  mellowed  her  old  aversion  to  the  lad  who  had 
tormented  her  at  school,  and  even  yet  lost  no  opportunity  of 
teasing  her  brother,  who  had  no  ready  tongue  to  answer  back  ? 
We  shall  see. 

She  stopped  her  song  quite  suddenly  when  she  heard  the 
foot  on  the  road,  and  when  a  sudden  flash  of  the  moon  from 
behind  a  cloud  revealed  the  figure  in  the  distance.  She  hastily 
put  on  her  hat,  and  even — oh,  vain  Katie! — gave  her  hair  a  hasty 
smooth,  and  let  down  her  skirt,  which  she  had  gathered  about 
her  waist  to  save  it  from  the  dusty  road.  There  was  a  demure, 
unconscious  look  in  her  sweet  face,  and  she  even  managed  to 
give  a  little  start  of  surprise  when  Angus  M'Bean  stopped  in 
front  of  her,  though  she  had  recognised  his  foot  a  hundred 
yards  away. 

*  Oh,  Mr.  Angus ! '  she  said,  being  much  more  civil  to  him 
than  Malcolm  ever  was,  '  what  are  ye  doing  here  ? ' 

4  What  could  I  be  doing  except  coming  to  meet  you  ? '  he 
said  gallantly.  '  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  last  night  that  you 
were  going  to  Shian,  and  I  would  have  come  all  the  way?' 

'  Oh,  that  would  have  been  ower  much,  besides  auntie  would 
have  heard,'  said  Katie  shyly.  'How  did  ye  find  oot  I  was 
at  Shian?' 

'  Your  aunt  told  me,'  said  Puddin '  unblushingly.  '  She 
knows  I  have  come  to  meet  you,  so  there  is  no  use  being  in 
such  a  hurry.  It's  not  often  I  have  the  chance  to  speak  to 
you  when  there's  nobody  by.' 

'  Were  ye  in  the  hoose  ? '  asked  Katie. 

'  Yes,  of  course ;  when  I  want  to  see  you,  Katie,  I  don't  care 
who  knows,'  said  Angus,  with  great  emphasis.  '  It's  only  you 
that  is  ashamed  to  be  seen  with  me.' 

Tin  no'  ashamed,'  began  Katie  hastily.     'But' — 

Then  she  stopped,  and  the  sweet,  hot  colour  flushed  all  her 
face. 

'But  what?'  asked  Angus,  bending  his  face  eagerly  down 
to  hers. 

'  Dinmi,  Mr.  Angus ;  ye  ken  what  way,'  said  Katie,  in 
distress.  '  Ye  ken  what  folks  wad  say  if  I  were  to  walk  oot 
wi'  you,  as  ye  are  aye  askinV 


LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM.  267 

'  Never  mind  them,  Katie ;  they  won't  do  half  so  much  for 
you  as  I  would,'  said  Angus,  drawing  her  half-unwilling  hand 
through  his  arm.  He  was  quite  sincere  in  what  he  said.  His 
love  for  Katie  Menzies  was  the  purest  and  most  honest  feeling 
the  factor's  son  had  ever  given  house-room  in  his  somewhat 
empty  heart.  She  was  so  sweet  and  pure  herself,  her  influence 
over  hvm  could  not  be  for  anything  but  good. 

'  Let  us  go  inside  the  dyke  and  across  the  moor,  instead  of 
keeping  to  the  road,'  he  suggested  presently.  '  I  doubt  Malcolm 
will  be  coming  to  meet  you,  and  he  hates  me,  I  don't  know 
why.' 

Katie  shivered. 

'  Ay,  he's  like  to  kill  me  when  he  sees  me  speakin'  to  ye,' 
she  said,  and  he  felt  her  hand  tremble  on  his  arm.  '  Malky's 
awfu'  queer  gettin' ;  I'm  whiles  feared  at  him  mysel'.' 

The  impulse  was  on  Angus  M'Bean  to  speak  slightingly  of 
Malcolm,  and  to  say  that  Murthly  was  the  place  for  him,  but 
he  would  not  hurt  Katie  if  he  could  help  it,  so  he  held  his 
peace.  Katie  stepped  over  the  drystone  dyke,  and  thought,  as 
he  helped  her,  how  different  he  was  from  the  Fauld  lads,  who 
were  so  rough  and  uncouth,  and  knew  nothing  of  the  little 
attentions  which  all  women  love.  Katie  was  hankering  after 
being  a  lady,  and  had  often  watched  Sheila  Macdonald  riding 
on  the  roads,  and  felt  a  strange,  bitter  envy  mingle  with  the 
love  she  bore  her.  Why  should  one  have  so  much  and  another 
so  little  ?  When  a  young  heart  begins  to  question  the  ordering 
of  life  it  is  upon  a  perilous  brink,  and  needs  a  guiding  hand ; 
but  Katie  had  none.  So,  in  her  discontented  moments,  Angus 
M'Bean's  flattering  attentions,  bestowed  at  first  because  it  was 
natural  to  him  to  make  love  to  every  pretty  girl  who  would 
allow  him,  pleased  and  gratified  her.  He  was  gentlemanly  in 
his  manners  when  he  liked,  though  he  did  not  treat  his  mother 
or  sisters  to  that  side  of  his  accomplishments.  But  the  pastime 
begun  in  holiday-time  was  like  to  have  a  serious  ending  for 
all  concerned.  Katie  had  begun  to  think  about  Angus  M'Bean 
day  and  night.  Whatever  he  might  be  to  others,  he  was  always 
kind,  tender,  and  considerate  for  her ;  then  he  was  a  gentleman. 
Poor  Katie!  these  two  words  'lady'  and  'gentleman'  were 


a68  SHEILA. 

words  of  exaggerated  import  to  her.  She  knew  nothing  of  the 
ladyhood  of  mind  and  heart  which  is  independent  of  all 
outward  circumstances.  Nor  did  she  dream  that  Rob  Mac- 
naughton,  the  stocking- weaver,  stood  upon  a  pinnacle  of 
gentlehood  which  Angus  M'Bean,  with  his  town  airs  and  most 
silly  conceits,  would  never  reach. 

*  What  a  shame  if  Malky  goes  all  the  way  to  Shian ! '  said 
Katie,  when  they  were  away  from  the  road. 

'  Never  mind ;  it'll  do  him  good,'  said  Angus  quickly.  '  Katie, 
I  want  you  to  write  to  me  when  I  go  back  to  Edinburgh.' 

'  When  do  ye  gang  ? '  asked  Katie,  in  a  low  voice. 

'  In  three  weeks.  What  a  short  holiday  this  has  seemed !  I 
used  to  weary  at  Auchloy,  but  not  this  time.' 

'Hae  ye  no'?'  asked  Katie;  and  her  heart  was  beating,  for 
she  knew  quite  well  that  he  meant  she  had  kept  him  from 
wearying.  '  Is  young  Mr.  Macleod  gaun  back  too  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know,  and  I  don't  care,  Katie.  Fergus  Macleod  and 
I  don't  get  on.  The  fellow's  a  prig,  and  thinks  it's  a  sin  to  have 
the  least  bit  lark.' 

'  I  aye  thocht  him  very  nice,'  said  Katie  innocently.  '  Div 
ye  think  him  an'  Miss  Sheila  '11  be  man  an*  wife  yet  ? ' 

'I  don't  think  it  likely,'  said  Angus,  a  little  constrainedly, 
for  he  suddenly  remembered  that  he  was  supposed  to  be  a 
suitor  for  Sheila's  hand  himself.  But,  with  Katie's  hand 
clinging  to  his  arm,  and  her  bonnie,  sweet  face  looking  up 
shyly  to  his,  he  did  not  seem  to  care  a  pin  for  Sheila  or  her 
inheritance.  What  if  love  for  this  little  country  girl, 
whose  pure  heart  and  sweet  face  were  her  only  dower,  should 
make  a  man  of  Puddin'  after  all?  He  was  certainly  at  his 
best  with  her. 

'  Some  says  she's  to  marry  her  cousin,  young  Mr.  Murray,' 
said  Katie,  who  seemed  to  take  an  absorbing  interest  in  Sheila's 
settlement  in  life.  ' Is  he  a  nice  chap,  Mr.  Angus? ' 

'Nice  enough;  soft  a  little,'  said  Angus,  in  his  off-hund  way, 
— not,  of  course,  caring  to  tell  Katie  how  persistently  and 
completely  Alastair  Murray  had  ignored  him  in  Edinburgh. 
'  I  sh  tuldn't  care  to  marry  Sheila  Macdonald,  Katie.  Isn't  she 
a  bit  of  a  tartar?' 


LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM.  269 

She's  an  angel,  that's  what  I  think,  Mr.  Angus,'  said  Katie 
simply.  '  I  never  saw  anybody  like  her.  I  wish  I  was  rich  an' 
grand  like  her,  an'  could  ride  aboot  on  a  horse,  an'  build  hooses 
for  folk.' 

'  Perhaps  you  will  some  day,  Katie.' 

Katie  shook  her  head. 

'  There's  little  chance.  Fll  hae  to  bide  in  the  Fauld  a'  my 
days,  likely,  keeping  the  hoose  an'  niilkin'  Malky's  kye.' 

'Would  you  leave  Malcolm  if  I  ;isked  you,  Katie?' 

Katie  shook  from  head  to  foot,  and  in  the  clear  moonlight 
she  lifted  her  questioning  eyes  to  her  lover's  face.  There 
was  a  strange  look  on  her  face — half  terror,  half  wondering 
joy.  It  was  the  look  of  a  woman  seeking  to  know  what  a  man 
has  to  give  in  return  for  her  love  and  trust.  Angus  M'Bean 
was  quite  in  earnest,  and  his  eyes  met  Katie's  without  flinching. 
He  meant  no  ill.  It  was  an  honest  love  he  was  offering  the 
girl  at  his  side.  He  had  learned  enough  evil,  no  doubt,  among 
his  wild  comrades  in  Edinburgh,  but  there  was  good  left  in 
him  still. 

'  Oh,  Mr.  Angus,  what  are  ye  sayin'  ?  What  do  you  mean  ? ' 
she  asked  almost  piteously. 

'  What  I  say,  Katie.  Will  you  be  my  bonnie  wee  wife  some 
day,  when  I  have  a  home  to  offer  you  ? ' 

A  sob  of  gladness  broke  from  Katie's  lips,  and  she  allowed 
him  to  fold  her  to  his  heart,  and  to  kiss  her  as  a  man  kisses  the 
woman  of  his  choice.  They  were  alone  in  the  vast  solitude  of 
the  moorland,  with  the  loch  gleaming  whitely  in  the  hollow 
below,  and  none  to  witness  their  betrothal  but  the  stars  that 
see  all  and  keep  silence. 

'But  I'm  no'  fit,'  whispered  Katie  at  length,  with  all  the 
humility  of  love.  '  Ye  might  marry  somebody  far  grander  anr 
bonnier.' 

'  Nobody  will  ever  be  grander  or  bonnier  than  you  to  me, 
Katie,'  said  Angus  fondly.  '  And  IT!  never  marry  anybody  but 
you.  You  do  like  me,  don't  you,  Katie  ? ' 

«0h,  I  do!  I  do!'  sobbed  Katie;  and  Angns  clasped  her 
close  again,  and  stroked  her  bonnie  hair  with  a  tender  touch. 

He  had  never  felt  as  he  did  just  then.     All  that  was  best  in 


270  SHEILA. 

his  nature  rose  to  the  surface,  called  forth  by  the  mysterious 
influence  of  this  young  creature,  who  gave  him  the  implicit 
trust  of  love.  He  even  felt  ashamed  of  his  past  life,  of  his  idle 
dreaming,  and  frivolous,  evil  waste  of  golden  opportunity,  and 
in  a  vague,  uncertain  kind  of  way  made  a  vow  for  the  future. 
He  would  live  a  different  life  henceforth  for  Katie's  sake. 

'  Katie,  you're  far  better  than  me,  but  I'll  be  better.  I've 
wasted  my  time  and  behaved  as  I  shouldna  in  Edinburgh,  but 
Til  be  different  this  winter,  you'll  see,'  he  said  manfully. 

If  Katie  had  but  known,  she  could  have  had  no  stronger  proot' 
of  her  lover's  sincerity  than  that  whispered  confession  and  promise 
of  amendment.  But  she  only  looked  up  into  his  face  and  said, 
with  all  her  loving  heart  in  her  eyes, — 

'  I  dinna  want  ye  to  be  ony  better,  for  fear  ye  dinna  like 
me.' 

'But  whatll  they  say  at  Auchloy?'  asked  Katie,  with  a 
slight  cloud  on  her  brow,  when,  after  a  long  lingering,  they 
went  on  again  towards  the  light  in  the  Fauld. 

'  My  mother  will  be  delighted,  I  know,'  said  Angus  at  once. 
'  But,  Katie,  you'll  need  to  leave  it  all  to  me.  Til  make  every- 
thing right.  We'll  need  to  keep  it  quiet  for  a  little,  you  must 
mind,  will  you,  Katie  ? ' 

'  Oh,  no'  me ;  I'll  haud  my  tongue  for  ever  if  you  like,'  said 
Katie.  '  Til  be  feared,  ony  way,  for  Malky  kennin'.  He'll  be 
in  an  awfu'  rage.' 

'Katie,  I'm  afraid  I  haven't  treated  Malcolm  very  well. 
This  very  night  I  was  teasing  him.  I  won't  do  it  again.  I'm 
a  horrid  fellow,  not  half  good  enough  for  you.' 

'  Oh,  dinna  say  that  again  1 '  pleaded  Katie.  *  An'  Malky 's 
awfu  tricky.' 

'  Ay ;  but  I  try  to  anger  him,'  said  Angus,  whose  very  nature 
seemed  to  have  undergone  a  change  in  the  last  hour.  '  I'll  try 
a  different  plan  with  him.  Maybe  we'll  win  him  to  our  side. 
Anyway,  you'll  stick  to  me,  won't  you,  Katie  ? ' 

'  Ay,'  said  Katie,  in  a  whisper ;  but  there  was  a  world  of 
confident  resolve  in  that  monosyllabic  answer.  Angus  M'Bean 
felt  like  a  different  man.  He  could  not  believe  that  a  simple 
declaration  of  love  given  and  received  could  have  wrought  such 


LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM.  271 

a  change.  He  had  begun  to  pay  attention  to  bonnie  Katie 
Menzies  more  than  a  year  before,  to  help  to  pass  the  holidays, 
a  time  which  hung  so  heavy  on  his  hands  at  Auchloy ;  and 
even  at  the  beginning  of  this  holiday,  when  he  had  been  struck 
anew  by  her  winsome  grace,  he  had  had  no  idea  of  this. 
From  jest  to  earnest  it  had  verily  been  with  him,  but  it  was  a 
beautiful  earnest,  which  was  to  bear  fruit  in  his  life.  In  spite 
of  her  little  weaknesses,  Katie  was  a  true  woman  at  heart,  and 
was  not  found  wanting  when  a  crisis  came. 

4  Til  go  back  to  Edinburgh  and  work  like  blazes  this  winter,' 
said  Angus  cheerily,  as  they  walked  on  hand  in  hand,  but  very 
slowly,  it  must  be  confessed. 

4  What  are  ye  learnin'  at  the  college  ? '  Katie  asked. 

*  Faith,  I  haven't  learnt  much  yet,'  Angus  replied.     '  I'm 
supposed  to  be   learning   to    be   a   factor.     There's  the  law 
classes,  you  know,  I  should  attend.     And  then  I  have  so  many 
hours  in  the  W.S.'s  office  in  Castle   Street.     But  I've  been 
awfully  idle.' 

1  And  when  ye  are  done  wi*  the  college,  will  ye  be  like  Mr. 
M'Bean  at  Auchloy  ? ' 

*  Something  like  it,  Katie.     I  hope  I'll  be  able  to  give  you 
as  good  a  house.     What  grand  times  we'll  have,  won't  we  ? ' 

4  Splendid  1 '  answered  Katie ;  but  there  was  a  vague  feeling 
of  apprehension  haunting  her  even  in  the  midst  of  her 
happiness.  She  did  not  know  what  it  was,  but  a  little  cloud 
seemed  suddenly  to  have  arisen  on  the  horizon  and  obscured 
its  brightness. 

*  You'll  not  weary,  though  it  should  be  a  long  time,  Katie  ?  and 
youll  write  often,  and  so  will  I ;  and  I'll  be  back  at  New  Year.' 

4  But  ye  arena  goin'  away  for  three  weeks  yet  ? ' 

'No,  that's  quite  true,  but  I  was  only  mentioning  it.  Is 
this  the  Fauld  already  ?  What  a  short  walk  it  has  been  I ' 

4 1  doot  it's  late,  for  the  smiddy  licht's  oot,  — and  see,  so  is 
Rob  Macnaughton's  1  What  o'clock  is't  ? ' 

4  Ten  minutes  past  ten  I  Impossible !  My  watch  must  be 
wrong!'  exclaimed  Angus,  who  could  not  believe  that  two 
hours  had  passed  since  he  met  Katie  just  below  Auchloy,  not 
two  miles  from  the  Fauld. 


27  a  SHEILA. 

'No,  it's  richt;  I'll  catch  it,'  said  Katie.  'Guid-nicht;  dinna 
keep  me  anither  meenit.' 

'  Let  me  come  iu  and  explain  matters  to  them,  and  take  the 
scolding,'  said  Angus  anxiously. 

'  O  no,  that  wad  be  far  waur ;  Malky  would  be  terrible  mad. 
Guid-nicht ; '  and,  scarcely  permitting  a  last  kiss,  Katie  bounded 
through  the  clachan  and  into  the  house.  Her  aunt  seemed  to 
be  asleep,  but  Malcolm  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  feeding  it  with 
peats,  and  wearing  a  very  dark  scowl  on  his  face. 

'  A  bonnie  time  o'  nicht  this  1 '  he  said,  looking  up  at  Katie. 
'Are  ye  no*  feared  to  stravaig  the  roads  in  the  nicht  time 
yersel'?' 

'No*  me.  Is  auntie  sleepin'?'  asked  Katie,  glad  to  get  off 
BO  easily. 

'  Katie  Menzies,'  said  Malcolm,  rising,  his  two  big  melancholy 
eyes  glowing  like  live  coal,  'if  ye  gang  oot  the  hills  wi' 
Angus  M'Bean  again,  I'll  kill  baith  him  an'  you  1  * 


CHAPTER  XXXL 


IN    BITTERNESS    OF    SOUL. 

Some  natural  tears  they  dropped,  bat  wiped  them  soon; 
The  world  was  all  before  them. 

MiLTOtf. 


OU  had  better  get  your  books  looked  out,  Fergus, 
I  have  got  all  the  rest  of  your  things  ready,'  said 
Ellen  Macleod  to  her  son,  after  their  early  dinner 
on  the  last  day  of  September.  Fergus  rose  to  his 
feet,  and  pushed  back  his  chair.  The  question  which  had  been 
in  abeyance  all  the  holidays  must  be  answered  now. 

'  Then  I  am  to  go  back  to  the  university,  am  I  ? '  he  asked. 
*  Of  course.     Isn't  that  rather  a  superfluous  question?'  she 
asked,  with  slightly  elevated  brows. 

'  Mother,  I  hate  to  go  1  111  never  do  any  good  at  it  I  don'» 
think  I  can  be  a  minister,  even  to  please  you.' 

'And  if  you  won't  be  a  minister,  what,  pray,  are  you  going 
to  do?'  she  asked,  with  a  slight  sneer.  She  hated  to  have  her 
plans  set  aside.  Since  Fergus  could  not  be  Laird  of  Dalmore, 
the  next  best  thing  for  him  was  to  follow  in  his  father's  foot- 
steps. The  best  families  in  the  country  were  proud  to  have 
sons  in  the  Church. 

'  I  told  you  already,  mother,  what  I  would  like,'  said  Fergus, 
with  something  of  entreaty  in  his  voice.     '  Let  me  go  away  to 
JS 


274  SHEILA. 

America,  to  see  for  myself  what  the  new  world  is  like;  and 
perhaps,'  he  added,  with  a  slightly  melancholy  smile,  '  I  shall 
come  back  a  better  boy.' 

'Fergus,  I  know  not  what  I  have  done  that  I  should  have 
such  an  undutiful  son,'  said  Ellen  Macleod,  with  a  touch  of 
passion.  '  Boy,  I  have  planned,  and  schemed,  and  even  sinned 
for  you.  I  have  exposed  myself  to  insult  and  injury,  in  my 
endeavour  to  secure  your  rights  for  you.  Where  is  your 
gratitude?  Now  that  Dalmore  is  out  of  your  reach,  you  ought 
to  be  thankful  that  such  an  honourable  and  gentlemanly  calling 
is  open  to  you.' 

*  I'm  not  denying  that  it  is  a  good  profession,'  said  Fergus, 
a  little  sullenly.  '  I'm  only  saying  I'm  not  fit  for  it.  Mother, 
I  should  be  a  curse  to  the  Church  instead  of  a  blessing  to  it,  as 
a  minister  should  be.' 

'  You  are  only  a  foolish  boy,  who  doesn't  know  what  he  is 
talking  about,'  Ids  mother  retorted  quickly.  'When  you  are  a 
year  or  two  older,  you  will  discover  that  I  acted  for  your  good. 
Why,  Fergus,  a  minister  is  on  equal  footing  with  the  highest  in 
the  land.  He  sits  down  at  the  most  exclusive  tables  in  the 
county.  Just  look  at  your  own  father.  He  was  of  no  family, 
yet  I  married  him.  The  Church  levels  all  distinctions ;  and  you 
ought  to  be  thankful,  I  say,  that  it  is  open  to  you.' 

'  But,  mother,  that  isn't  the  point.  I  know  all  you  say  is 
true,  but  1  don't  want  to  wear  a  black  coat  and  sit  down  at  the 
exclusive  tables  in  the  county,'  said  Fergus  hotly.  '  I'm  not  fit 
for  any  of  it.  I'd  rather  take  a  shepherd's  place  any  day,  as  I 
said  before,  than  be  a  minister.' 

Ellen  Macleod  did  not  speak  for  a  moment.  She  was  very 
angry,  and  very  determined,  too.  But  she  saw  determination 
as  strong  written  on  her  son's  brow,  and  began  to  realize  that 
she  had  no  longer  a  child  to  deal  with,  but  a  man  who  claimed 
a  man's  rights  to  decide  his  own  course  in  life.  Fergus  was 
now  in  his  twentieth  year,  and  looked  even  older.  His  tall, 
muscular  figure  was  firmly  set;  his  face  had  lost  the  boyish 
look.  He  was  a  handsome,  stalwart,  manly  fellow,  who  did  not 
lack  decision  of  character  or  determination.  But  it  is  not  easy 
to  set  a  determined  will  against  a  mother ;  and  Fergus  had  been 


IN  BITTERNESS  OF  SOUL.  275 

so  long  under  complete  rule  that  he  had  a  hesitation  in  claiming 
his  own  right  of  choice.  But,  whatever  should  be  the  result, 
the  lad's  mind  was  absolutely  fixed  on  the  Church  question. 
He  knew  that  to  bind  him  down  by  such  trammels,  and  to  lay 
upon  his  shoulders  grave  responsibilities,  which  only  the  grace 
of  God  can  lighten,  would  be  simply  to  ruin  his  life.  He  was 
not  without  foresight  and  shrewdness,  and  he  had  seen  and 
knew  of  many  melancholy  examples,  both  of  '  stickit  ministers,' 
and  of  those  who,  though  in  full  charge,  were  not  only  useless, 
but  who,  by  their  inefficiency  and  unfitness,  brought  discredit 
on  the  Church.  He  would  not  add  another  name  to  that 
melancholy  roll.  Whatever  his  way  of  life,  he  would  not  make 
a  failure  of  it.  And  all  his  tastes  and  inclinations  and  pursuits, 
though  perfectly  healthful  and  noble  in  themselves,  were 
not  of  a  kind  which  would  sanctify  the  sacred  calling  of  a 
minister. 

'  You  had  better  look  out  your  books,'  said  Ellen  Macleod 
quite  calmly,  just  as  if  the  whole  thing  had  been  amicably 
settled.  '  Isn't  it  upon  Tuesday  morning  you  will  need  to  go  ? 
and  this  is  Saturday.  There  is  no  use  having  a  bustle  and 
confusion  at  the  end.' 

Fergus  bit  his  lip.  Undutiful,  angry  words  rose  to  his  lips. 
Had  he  been  less  noble  and  self-denying  he  would  have  had  no 
scruple  in  uttering  them.  Possibly  they  might  have  done 
good.  I  believe  there  are  occasions  and  circumstances  in 
which  filial  obedience  ceases  to  be  a  duty.  But  Fergus  did 
hold  his  peace,  though  the  effort  was  tremendous.  He  picked 
up  his  cap  and  ran  out  of  the  house,  feeling  at  that  moment 
that  nothing  but  the  fresh  wind  of  heaven  would  give  him 
relief.  It  was  a  fine,  mild  autumn  day.  There  was  little 
sunshine,  but  a  kind  of  subdued  brightness  seemed  to  pervade 
the  soft  light  clouds  in  the  sky.  The  air  was  perfectly  motion- 
less and  still;  every  sound  in  the  far  distance  sounded  clearly 
and  distinctly,  as  if  it  were  just  at  hand.  The  bleating  of  a 
sheep  up  on  the  very  pinnacle  of  Craig  Hulich  sounded  so 
close  to  Fergus,  that  involuntarily  he  started  and  looked  round. 
The  summer  was  over.  The  bloom  was  fading  on  the  heather, 
and  there  were  no  fresh  buds  on  the  wild  Sewers  by  the  way- 


276  SHEILA. 

side.  The  summer  had  been  early,  winter  would  be  early  too 
Most  of  the  sportsmen  had  left  Strathbraan  and  Glenquaich, 
and  the  remaining  grouse  possessed  the  heather  in  peace. 
Fergus  noticed  all  these  little  things  which  went  to  make  up 
the  sum  of  a  quiet  day  among  the  hills.  He  even  looked  at 
the  dappled  clouds  moving  eastward,  and  wondered  how  long  it 
would  be  before  rain  came.  The  corn  was  all  in  stooks  on  the 
crofts,  but  in  these  low-lying  fields,  exposed  to  the  wet  from 
the  loch,  it  took  long  to  winnow.  Farming  in  Glenquaich  was 
certainly  a  trial  of  patience  and  faith. 

He  walked  on  almost  unc  nsciously  by  the  rough,  stony  road 
to  Kinloch,  and  through  the  clachan,  quickening  his  step  a 
little,  not  wishing  to  speak  with  any  of  the  folks.  There  were 
few  but  bairns  and  old  folk  about,  indeed,  for  all  the  able  hands 
were  in  the  harvest-field.  The  road  which  led  to  Shian,  by 
the  loch-side,  cut  through  a  bonnie  birch  wood  for  about  half 
a  mile, — a  picturesque  walk  indeed,  for  the  loch  lay  below, 
gleaming  whitely  through  the  drooping  branches.  Rowans 
were  hanging  in  ripe  red  clusters,  and  even  the  bramble  was 
taking  on  its  richer  purple  hue.  It  was  the  birds'  harvest  as 
well  as  the  harvest  of  the  cottars  in  Glenquaich. 

Fergus  walked  leisurely,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets ;  but 
he  took  long,  swinging  strides,  and,  without  any  plan  or  effort, 
he  seemed  to  come  quite  near  to  Shian  shortly  after  he  left  the 
Lodge.  He  took  up  over  the  fields  behind  the  old  house  of 
Shian,  and  came  down  on  the  kirkyard  by  a  shoi  t  cut.  It  was 
his  first  visit  to  his  uncle's  grave.  Before  he  vaulted  the  low 
wall,  he  saw  at  the  opposite  side  a  little  carriage  and  two  grey 
ponies  he  recognised  at  once.  Somebody  from  Dalmore  was 
visiting  the  burying  -  ground ;  and  when  he  looked  to  the 
corner  where  the  Macdonalds  lay,  he  saw  Sheila  down  on  her 
knees  putting  fresh  flowers  on  the  turf.  In  a  moment  he  was 
over  the  wall,  and  had  crossed  to  her  side.  He  forgot  every- 
thing but  that  it  was  Sheila,  and  that  the  sorrow  in  her  heart 
was  a  sorrow  he  could  understand  and  share.  The  dead  were 
dear  to  her  as  they  were  to  him.  It  came  upon  him  then, 
quite  suddenly,  that  Sheila,  in  spite  of  her  great  inheritance, 
was  very  forlorn.  She  had  nobody  in  the  wide  world  she 


IN  BITTERNESS  OF  SOUL.  277 

could  call  her  own;  and  then  she  was  a  girl — one  to  whom 
love  and  companionship  were  like  the  breath  of  life. 

'  Sheila,'  he  said,  his  voice  made  very  soft  by  the  strong 
feeling  of  his  heart.  '  how  are  you  to-day  ? ' 

Sheila  started  up,  for  she  had  not  heard  him  come,  but  she 
had  a  smile  for  him,  and  when  they  shook  hands  he  felt  hers 
tremble. 

'This  is  the  first  time  I  have  been,'  she  said  simply,  as  she 
stooped  to  place  a  bunch  of  late  roses  at  the  head.  '  How 
strange  to  see  you  here !  Do  you  come  sometimes?' 

'Never;  this  is  the  first  time,'  Fergus  returned.  'Sheila, 
I  was  a  brute  to  you  last  time  I  saw  you.  Forgive  me  for  it.' 

1 0  yes.  I  did  not  think  about  it  in  that  way,'  she  said ; 
and  he  knew  she  had  thought  of  it,  but  with  what  bitterness  of 
heart  he  little  dreamed. 

Her  mouth  quivered,  and  he  saw  her  shake  from  head  to  foot 
as  she  still  bent  over  the  grave.  She  was  very  desolate,  poor 
child !  It  seemed  to  her  at  that  moment  that  all  she  loved  lay 
beneath  that  green  mound,  and  that  there  was  very  little  worth 
having  left  in  the  world. 

'  Don't  stand  here,  Sheila ;  it  is  not  good  for  you,'  said 
Fergus  impulsively.  'Are  you  driving  alone?' 

« Yes ;  Miss  Gordon  would  have  come,  but  I  thought  I 
should  like  to  be  by  myself.' 

'  Will  you  let  me  drive  you  home,  Sheila?' 

1  Of  course,  Fergus ;  it  will  be  delightful,'  she  answered  ;  and 
he  saw  a  glad  look  steal  into  her  eyes.  After  all,  she  was  the 
same.  He  had  only  imagined  a  change  in  her.  '  How  quiet  it 
is  here;  but  oh,  how  lonely  1  "When  it  gets  dark,  and  the  wind 
moans  through  these  trees,  I  should  be  afraid,'  she  added,  with  a 
slight  shiver. 

It  had  done  her  no  good  to  come.  There  is  no  comfort  to 
the  hungry  heart  of  the  living  in  viewing  the  last  resting-place ; 
it  seems  to  widen  the  distance  between  the  loved  who  have 
gone  within  the  veil.  Such  was  Sheila's  thought,  unexpressed, 
but  felt  deeply  in  her  heart.  Fergus  felt  perfectly  happy  as 
he  handed  Sheila  into  the  carriage,  and,  jumping  in  beside  her, 
took  the  reins.  They  had  no  thought  of  what  the  folks  would 


278  SHEILA. 

say ;  aud,  I  daresay,  if  they  had  thought  of  it,  would  only  have 
laughed.  Were  they  not  more  like  brother  and  sister  than 
anything  else?  So  Shian  folks  were  exercised  that  afternoon 
by  the  sight  of  Miss  Murray  Macdonald's  carriage  crossing  the 
Quaich  Bridge  driven  by  Fergus  Macleod. 

'You  never  come  up  to  see  me/  said  Sheila,  a  little  mis- 
chievously, as  they  bowled  smoothly  along  the  road.  '  What 
have  you  done  with  yourself  all  summer?' 

'Lounged  about,  and  done  nothing.  I  did  put  up  hay  at 
Dalreoch  one  day,  and  I  tell  you  I  liked  it.  I'm  thinking  of 
feeing  with  Mr.  Stewart  as  shepherd,  instead  of  going  back  to 
Edinburgh  this  winter.' 

'  Then  you  would  live  in  the  shepherd's  house  at  Girron ;  and 
I  should  amuse  myself  at  our  drawing-room  window  watching 
you  rescuing  the  sheep  from  the  drifts,  and  falling  into  them 
yourself,'  said  Sheila,  with  a  smile. 

But  Fergus  grew  suddenly  quite  grave  and  silent.  '  Sheila, 
I  wish  you'd  tell  me  what  to  do,'  he  said  abruptly. 

'  What  about,  Fergus  ? ' 

*  I  can't  make  up  my  own  mind.     My  mother  insists  that  I 
must  go  back  to  college  and  finish  the  course.     I  want  to  go 
to  Canada.      I  had  a  letter  from  Donald  Macalpine.     They  are 
getting  on  splendidly,  Sheila,  and  never  wishing  they  were  back.' 

*  Don't  go  to  Canada,  Fergus.' 

Sheila's  sweet  voice  faltered,  and  a  strange  thrill  shot  to  the 
young  man's  heart.  What  a  strange,  sweet  thought  it  was,  that 
anybody — especially  Sheila — should  wish  him  to  stay  for  his 
own  sake  1 

'  Well,  but  I  can't  be  a  minister,  Sheila.  I'd  do  some  dreadful 
thing  if  I  found  myself  in  a  pulpit  with  one  of  those  fearsome 
black  gowns  on.  And  how  could  I  make  up  sermons  or  say 
prayers?  I'm  not  half  good  or  reverent  enough.  I  have  no 
convictions  of  duty  in  that  direction  at  all ;  so  how  could  I  be  a 
minister?' 

*  Have  you  tried  to  tell  your  mother  how  you  feel  about  it  ? ' 
Sheila  asked,  with  a  slight  hesitation ;  for  she  had  really  never 
quite  got  rid  of  her  childish  fear  of  Ellen  Macleod. 

'I've  tried,'  Fergus  answered  gloomily,  'but  it's  no  use.     She 


IN  BITTERNESS  OF  SO  UL.  279 

can't  understand,  and  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  It's  not  easy 
lor  a  fellow  to  know  what's  his  duty  in  this  world.  What  do 
you  think?' 

'Fergus,  how  can  I  tell?  Perhaps — perhaps,  I  think,  you 
ought  to  obey  your  mother.' 

'  If  I  do,  it  will  be  the  ruin  of  me.  I  shall  never  do  an  atom 
of  good  in  this  world  to  myself  or  any  other  body.  I'll  be  a 
stickit  minister,  Sheila,  and  bring  disgrace  on  my  folks.' 

'  Not  you.  Whatever  you  do,  you  won't  stick ;  and  you  know 
it,'  she  said,  with  quick  confidence,  which  sent  another  warm 
glow  to  Fergus's  riven  heart.  '  Do  you  think  your  mother  will 
not  relent  after  a  while  ? ' 

'  I  am  sure  she  won't,'  Fergus  answered  gloomily. 

'  Oh,  perhaps  she  will.  In  the  meantime,  if  I  were  you,  I'd 
go  back  to  Edinburgh  and  learn  with  all  my  might,'  said  Sheila 
cheerily.  '  Here  we  are  at  Auchloy.  Just  look  at  the  dining- 
room  window,  Fergus,  and  see  how  many  heads  there  are.' 

'One,  two,  three;  and  there's  Puddin's  beacon,'  said  Fergus, 
making  a  wry  face.  *  Well,  we've  given  them  something  to  talk 
about.' 

Sheila  laughed  too. 

'  You  always  call  him  "  Puddin* "  yet.  What  an  atrocious 
name  it  is  I ' 

'  Good  enough  for  him.' 

'Oh,  why?  He  is  rather  amiable,  I  think.  He  has  been  up 
at  Dalmore  once  or  twice,  and  both  Miss  Gordon  and  I  think 
him  much  improved.  They  say  in  the  Fauld,  Fergus,  that  he 
is  courting  Katie  Menzies.' 

'  Katie  Menzies  ?  Never  1  He'd  better  take  care.  If  he 
makes  fun  of  Katie  I'll  be  into  him.' 

'Why,  Fergus,  how  very  pugnacious  you  arel  So  you  are 
Katie's  champion?  Well,  I  shouldn't  like  to  be  your  rival,' 
said  Sheila  teasingly. 

'  Oh,  come  now,  Sheila.  Fm  not  his  rival  at  all,  only  I  can't 
have  him  come  making  a  fool  of  our  village  beauty.  Why,  if 
you  knew  the  fellow  as  I  know  him,  and  the  company  he  keeps,' 
said  Fergus  scathingly ;  '  he's  not  fit  to  speak  to  Katie  Menzies, 
or  to  sit  in  the  drawing-room  at  Dalmore.' 


28o  SHEILA. 

'  You  are  very  hard  on  him — too  hard,  I  think.  I  am  sure 
he  has  improved,'  said  Sheila  quietly ;  but  her  eyes  were  deeply 
shadowed.  She  did  not  like  this  hard,  bitter,  uncharitable  side 
of  Fergus.  She  began  to  fear  that  years  had  not  improved  him. 

They  did  not  talk  very  much  as  they  swept  along  the  road  to 
the  school ;  and  when  Fergus  had  carefully  turned  the  corner, 
and  set  the  ponies'  heads  towards  the  Girron  Brig,  he  gave  Sheila 
the  reins,  and  jumped  out. 

'  Good-bye,  then,  Sheila ;  and  thank  you  for  allowing  me  to 
drive  you,'  he  said,  a  trifle  formally. 

'Thank  you  for  driving  me,'  Sheila  answered,  as  she  gave 
him  her  hand.  '  Shall  we  see  you  at  Dalmore  before  you  go  ? ' 

4 1  don't  think  so.  I  have  not  the  same  interest  in  the  place 
now.' 

It  was  a  cruel  speech,  only  from  the  lips.  Fergus  did  not 
know  what  always  prompted  him  to  hurt  Sheila  like  that.  She 
busied  herself  with  the  reins,  and  when  they  were  straight  she 
took  the  ponies' heads  so  sharply  that  they  gave  a  step  backward. 

'  I  could  wish,  Fergus  Macleod,  that  I  had  never  seen  Dal- 
more,' she  said  ;  and  her  eyes  were  bright  and  stedfast  and  cold, 
and  her  voice  clear  and  distinct  as  a  bell.  '  It  is  a  burden  upon 
me  I  am  scarcel;*  able  to  bear.  Good-bye.' 


CHAPTER  XXXIL 


ALASTAIR'S  WOOINO. 

Love  sacrifices  all  things 
To  bless  the  thing  it  loves. 

E.  B.  LYTTON. 

HE  resuit  was,  that  Fergus  went  back  to  Edinburgh 
on  the  3rd  of  October,  and  Ellen  Macleod  imagined 
her  victory  complete.  Looking  forward,  she  saw  a 
vision  which  pleased  her  well, — her  son  established 
in  his  father's  parish  of  Meiklemore  (the  minister  of  which  was 
now  an  old  man),  and  herself  installed  once  more  as  mistress  of 
the  manse.  She  would  gladly  quit  Shonnen  any  day.  She  had 
nothing  to  bind  her  to  the  place ;  and  Dalmore,  which  she 
could  see  so  splendidly  from  the  windows  of  the  Lodge,  was 
a  constant  eyesore  to  her.  She  was  a  consummately  selfish 
woman.  Her  planning  was  for  her  son,  but  it  was  always  to  be 
good  for  hf-rsi  If  likewise.  She  did  not  admit  the  possibility, 
even,  that  Fergus  might  desire  to  take  a  wife.  His  first  duty, 
she  considered,  was  to  her.  But  Fergus  had  not  the  remotest 
intention  of  becoming  minister  of  Meiklemore  or  of  anywhere 
else.  He  was,  for  the  time  being,  completely  soured.  Every 
hope  and  ambition  blasted,  the  lad  grew  careless  about  every- 
thing. From  idle  habits  he  drifted  into  questionable  company. 
Had  his  mother  known  how  that  winter  session  was  spent,  she 


282  SHEILA. 

would  have  regretted  forcing  his  inclination.  The  weekly 
letter,  so  dutifully  written  when  he  first  went  to  Edinburgh,  had 
become  a  thing  of  the  past.  From  the  4th  of  October  till 
Christmas,  he  did  not  send  home  a  single  line.  I  do  not  defend 
him,  neither  do  I  blame  him  wholly.  Never  had  mother  a 
more  loveable,  obedient  child ;  never  had  child  so  harsh  and 
inconsiderate  a  mother.  It  was  to  be  expected  that,  sooner  or 
later,  the  opposing  wills  must  clash.  Ellen  Macleod  was  not  fit 
to  have  that  fine  nature  in  her  keeping.  She  had  done  her 
best  to  break  that  high,  manly  spirit,  but  had  only  warped  and 
soured  it.  Every  generous  impulse,  every  impetuous  boyish 
enthusiasm,  she  had  chilled  by  the  narrow  coldness  of  her  creed. 
The  world  was  a  mean,  sordid  place  in  the  eyes  of  Ellen 
Macleod, — human  nature  a  poor,  empty,  selfish  thing; — and  she 
had  done  her  best  to  implant  her  ideas  in  the  mind  of  her  son. 
She  had  tried  to  make  him  believe  himself  wronged  and  abused 
by  others,  but  in  vain.  The  lad  wanted  no  heritage  but  his 
own  grand  dower  of  manly  independence,  perfect  health,  and 
noble  desire  to  cut  out  his  own  path  in  life.  Poor  fool !  she 
would  not  even  let  him  enjoy  these,  his  heaven-born  gifts. 
She  fretted  her  own  heart  out  for  what  was  not  hers,  and  tried 
to  implant  in  him  a  similar  weakening  discontent.  And  when 
he  turned  upon  her,  and  repaid  her  poor  training  with  the 
indifference  of  a  chilled  and  disappointed  heart,  she  wrapped 
herself  in  the  garb  of  self-righteousness,  and  esteemed  herself  a 
martyr.  The  whole  world  trampled  upon  her,  even  her  own 
son,  whom  she  had  borne  and  reared: 

So  the  winter  dragged  itself  wearily  away.  Ellen  Macleod 
lived  her  dark,  melancholy  days  at  Shonnen,  with  nothing  to 
break  their  monotony,  and  Fergus —  But  I  will  not  dwell 
upon  this  part  of  my  hero's  career.  That  blemished  page  was 
only  laid  bare  to  one,  and  then  turned  down  for  ever.  Why, 
then,  should  we  seek  to  pry  into  it?  But  I  will  say  that, 
though  he  was  weak,  erring,  blameworthy,  he  avoided  the 
grosser  sins  in  which  too  many  of  his  colleagues  indulged. 

At  Christmas,  Alastair  Murray  came  home  as  usual,  Angus 
M'Bean  also,  but  there  was  no  word  from  or  of  Fergus.  Eli^n 
Macleod  passed  two  days  of  consuming  anxiety,  and  then  walked 


ALASTAIR'S  WOOING.  283 

over  to  Auchloy.  She  was  a  gaunt,  haggard-looking  woman, 
grown  old  before  her  time.  She  did  not  take  life  easily,  and 
those  who  worry  and  fret  themselves  must  carry  with  them  the 
outward  seal  of  their  discontent.  Her  dark,  penetrating  eye 
gleamed  restlessly,  her  brow  was  deeply  lined,  her  mouth 
marked  by  anxious,  nervous-looking  curves,  which  betrayed 
her  inner  unrest.  She  was  greatly  to  be  pitied.  There  did 
not  exist  in  the  wide  world  a  creature .  more  utterly  desolate 
than  she.  She  was  shown  into  the  smart  drawing-room  at 
Auchloy,  and  while  she  waited  for  Mrs.  M'Bean,  she  looked 
contemptuously  round  the  place,  which  was  very  showy,  and 
much  decorated  by  the  fair  hands  of  Jane  and  Bessie. 
Specimens  of  their  skill  in  needlework  and  their  artistic 
tendencies  were  visible  everywhere.  The  paintings  on  the 
walls,  signed  by  them,  were  productions  of  a  fearful  and  wonder- 
ful kind.  Mrs.  Macleod  was  kept  waiting  quite  a  quarter  of  an 
hour.  It  was  eleven  o'clock  in  the  day,  and  Mrs.  M'Bean  was 
still  in  her  housewifely  morning  gown,  and  the  young  ladies  in 
wrappers  and  curl-papers.  Mrs.  M'Bean,  being  without  pride, 
would  have  gone  as  she  was  into  the  drawing-room,  but  her 
daughters  were  horrified  at  the  suggestion,  and  carried  her  up- 
stairs to  be  dressed  hastily.  The  consequence  was  that,  after  a 
time,  Mrs.  M'Bean,  very  hot  and  flustered-looking,  and  wearing 
a  very  stiff  black  silk  gown,  quite  out  of  place  in  her  own  house 
at  that  time  of  the  day,  at  last  managed  to  reach  the  presence 
of  Mrs.  Macleod. 

'  I'm  sorry,  I'm  sure,  to  have  kept  you  waiting  so  long, 
ma'am,'  said  she,  the  moment  she  was  in  the  room,  and  to  the 
horror  of  Miss  Bessie,  who  was  listening  outside  the  door;  'but 
the  lassies  would  hae  me  to  put  on  my  best  goon.  I  hope  I 
see  ye  weel,  Mrs.  Macleod?' 

'  I  am  quite  well,  thank  you,'  replied  Mrs.  Macleod,  a  little 
stiffly.  '  I  must  apologize  for  my  early  call.  It  was  your  son 
I  asked  for.  Is  he  not  at  home  ?  ' 

'  He's  at  hame,  but  he's  no'  in  the  hoose,'  responded  Mrs. 
M'Bean.  '  I  can  send  one  of  the  lassies  to  look  for  him,  if  ye 
like.' 

'  Oh,  it  doesn't  matter.     I  can  see  him  again,  I  daresay.     I 


284  SHEILA. 

only  wanted  to  ask  him  about  my  sun.  I — I  have  not  he;ird 
from  him  lately,  and  I  thought  Angus  might  be  able  to  tell  me 
something  about  him.' 

Mrs.  M'Bean — motherly,  feeling-hearted  woman — looked  at 
the  unhappy  mistress  of  Shonnen  with  genuine  compassion. 

'  He's  weel  enough,  onyway,'  she  said  consolingly,  '  for  I  hear 
Angus  speaking  aboot  him.  He  saw  him  just  afore  he  left 
Edinburgh.' 

'Did  he?  Did  he  say  what  he  was  doing?'  inquired 
Ellen  Macleod,  with  an  eagerness  she  could  not  repress.  It 
cost  her  pride  something  to  make  these  inquiries,  but  for 
the  moment  motherly  anxiety  was  stronger  than  pride. 

'  I  doot  he's  no'  daein' just  unco  weel,'  said  Mrs.  M'Bean,  with 
blunt  candour.  '  Oh,  ma'am,  speak  to  me  as  ye  like ;  I  ken 
a'  aboot  it.  My  Angus  gaed  on  the  vera  same  way  when  he 
gaed  to  college  first.  The  maister  says  a'  young  men  maun 
come  to  the  end  o'  their  tether.' 

'  Does  Angus  say  my  son  is  not  behaving  as  he  should,  then  ?  ' 
asked  Ellen  Macleod,  with  a  sharp  effort. 

'Ay,  weel,  maybe  he  taks  a  drap  o'  drink,  or  plays  a  game 
at  the  cairds,  or  gangs  oftener  than  he  should  to  thae  ill  places, 
the  theatres,  that  if  I  were  the  Queen  I'd  stamp  off  the  face  ox 
the  earth.  They're  the  perfect  ruination  o'  laddies  and  lassies, 
no'  to  speak  o'  aulder  f  ules,  that  find  the  deil's  pleasure  in  them,' 
said  Mrs.  M'Bean,  with  honest  indignation.  '  But  dinna  fash 
yersel',  Maister  Fergus  is  a  guid,  guid  lad  at  the  bottom.  He'll 
come  to  the  husks  quicker  nor  my  laddie.  I'm  thankfu'  he 
has  clean  picket  himsel'  up  this  winter,  an'  he's  workin'  wi'  a' 
his  micht,  an'  livin'  as  I  wad  hae  him  live.  But  I  ken  what 
you  feeL  Many  a  sleepless  nicht  hae  I  putten  in  aboot  Angus 
M'Bean.' 

Ellen  Macleod  rose.  Perhaps  she  had  heard  more  than  she 
wished  or  expected.  She  had  very  little  to  say.  Mrs.  M'Bean 's 
homely-offered  sympathy  was  irksome  to  her.  She  felt  humili- 
ated that  she  should  have  called  it  forth.  But  her  worst  fears 
were  realized.  Fergus  was  following  in  the  prodigal's  footsteps 
in  Edinburgh.  What,  then,  was  to  be  done  ? 

She  thanked  the  factor's  wife  somewhat  stiffly  for  her  informa- 


ALASTAIR'S  WOOING.  285 

tion,  and  took  her  leave  without  so  much  as  looking  at  the  two 
young  ladies,  who  were  lingering  about  ihe  h;ill,  anxious  to 
commend  themselves  to  the  lady  of  Shonnen.  As  she  slipped 
out  of  the  gate  of  Auchloy,  a  carriage  came  sweeping  along  the 
road  from  Shian.  It  was  open,  and  in  it  sat  Sheila,  looking 
lovely  in  her  warm  winter  attire,  with  the  rich  furs  making  a 
dainty  setting  for  her  sweet  face.  She  flushed  up  at  sight  of 
Mrs.  Macleod.  The  natural  kindness  of  her  heart  prompted 
her  to  stop  the  carriage  and  offer  her  a  drive,  but  it  was  as 
well  she  restrained  herself.  Ellen  Macleod  could  not  at  that 
moment  have  given  her  a  pleasant  answer.  It  increased  her 
bitterness  to  see  the  young  mistress  of  Dalmore  looking  so 
bright  and  bonnie,  riding  in  her  own  carriage,  to  which  Ellen 
Macleod  thought  she  had  no  right.  Sheila  had  been  at  the 
graveyard  with  a  wreath  of  Christmas  roses.  She  was  going 
over  that  day  to  Murrayshaugh  to  spend  her  Christmas,  and, 
with  a  tender,  sensitive  thought,  wished  to  leave  a  remem- 
brance for  those  who  would  spend  no  more  Christmases  on 
earth. 

That  afternoon,  over  a  cosy  cup  of  tea  in  Lady  Ailsa's  boudoir, 
Sheila  told  of  meeting  Ellen  Macleod. 

*I  am  very  sorry  for  her,  Sheila,'  said  Lady  Ailsa  gently. 
'  Alastair  says  her  son  is  not  doing  very  well  in  Edinburgh.' 

'  In  his  classes,  does  he  mean  ? '  asked  Sheila,  with  her  eyes 
in  her  tea-cup. 

'  No.  He  is  not  behaving  himself.  He  is  drinking  a  little, 
and  keeping  company  with  a  wild  set.  I  am  very  sorry  for 
him.' 

'  Aunt  Ailsa,  I  don't  believe  a  single  word  of  it — not  one  I ' 
cried  Sheila  indignantly,  and  her  big  eyes  flashed  fire — '  not  a 
single  word  !  I  don't  believe  Fergus  Macleod  would  drink  or 
do  horrid  things.  He  has  been  frightfully  ill-used  by  every- 
body, I  think  ;  and  I  wish  I  knew  how  to  make  it  up  to  him. 
And  it's  perfectly  abominable  of  Alastair  to  tell  such  stories 
about  his  chum  1 ' 

Sheila  had  a  temper  of  her  own.  Her  aunt  looked  at  her  in 
amazement,  which  slowly  melted  away  as  a  light  dawned  upon 
her. 


286  SHEILA. 

1  Fergus  has  a  spirited  champion,  at  any  rate,'  she  said,  a 
little  dryly ;  for  a  hope  she  had  formed  for  her  own  son  was 
suddenly  quenched.  '  Alastair  had  no  object  in  telling  a  false- 
hood about  his  chum,  and  my  belief  is  that  he  has  not  told  the 
worst.  Whatever  Alastair  is,  he  is  not  spiteful.  You  are  not 
just  to  your  cousin,  Sheila.  But  we  will  not  allude  to  this 
vexed  question  again.  What  are  you  going  to  wear  to-night, 
then  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know,  and  I  don't  care!  Aunt  Ailsa,  I  am  perfectly 
miserable ! '  cried  Sheila,  and  there  were  real  tears  of  pain  in 
her  bright  eyes  now.  '  If  Fergus  Macleod  had  been  Laird  of 
Dalmore  now,  he  would  have  been  a  good  man.  What  use  is  it 
to  me  ?  It  is  just  a  burden  on  me,  and  nobody  will  take  it 
from  me.' 

'  Will  they  not  ?  There  are  plenty  waiting  for  the  chance, 
I  can  tell  you,'  said  Aunt  Ailsa  comically,  though  she  was 
truly  sorry  for  her  niece.  '  More  than  one  gentleman  to-night 
would  gladly  take  Dalmore,  and  its  bonnie  mistress  to  the 
bargain.' 

Sheila  laughed.  Her  anger,  flashing  up  in  a  moment,  was 
gone  as  speedily  ;  but  Lady  Ailsa  saw  that  there  was  a  sting 
left  about  Fergus  Macleod.  There  was  a  party  for  the  young 
folks  at  Murrayshaugh  that  night,  —  one  of  those  quiet  Vut 
delightful  entertainments  for  which  Lady  Ailsa  was  famous. 
She  made  home  home-like  and  happy  for  her  boys,  and  they 
simply  adored  her,  and  thought  Murrayshaugh  the  dearest 
place  in  the  world.  It  was  a  sight  to  see  the  little  mother 
surrounded  by  her  six  tall  sons ;  Roderick,  the  youngest,  was 
fifteen  now,  and  only  half  a  head  less  than  Alastair.  But  when 
Sheila  came,  their  allegiance  was  divided.  Sheila  was  a  prime 
favourite  among  all  the  boys,  but  poor  Alastair  had  begun  to 
think  of  her  lately  with  something  more  than  cousinly  affection. 

Sheila  came  down  to  the  parlor  that  night  in  a  white  silk 
•j;own,  with  the  Macdonald  tartan  at  her  waist  and  on  her  sleeves, 
arid  a  big  bunch  of  white  heather  fastening  her  bodice,  which 
was  cut  low,  to  reveal  the  white,  stately  contour  of  her  throat. 
Her  bright  brown  hair  was  coiled  round  her  dainty  head,  and 
she  looked  like  a  young  queen  as  she  moved  about,  with  a  kind 


ALASTAIR' S  WOOING^  287 

word  and  ready  smile  for  all  Aunt  Ailsa's  guests.  Many 
admiring  glances  followed  her  ;  but  Sheila  was  supremely  un- 
conscious of  her  own  bewildering  charms,  and  so  was  wholly 
irresistible  and  winning. 

'Sheila,  if  you  don't  play  this  game  with  me,  I'll  be  savage,' 
said  Alastair,  when  the  party  was  about  half  over.  '  You've 
been  playing  with  a  lot  of  blessed  fellows  you've  no  right  to 
speak  to.' 

'Dear  me!  Alastair  Murray,  I  thought  all  Aunt  Ailsa's 
guests  would  be  gentlemen,'  said  Sheila  mischievously. 

*  Oh,  well,  I  suppose  they  are.     But,  you  know,  /  have  some 
sort  of  a  right  to  attention,  haven't  I?' 

'  Oh,  I  daresay.  But  I'm  tired,  Alastair.  If  you  like  to  get 
me  a  shawl,  I'll  go  out  with  you.' 

Alastair  departed  in  rapture,  and  brought  her  somebody's 
wrap  from  the  cloak-room,  a  dainty  cloak  of  Stuart  tartan 
silk,  lined  with,  swan's-down,  and  fastened  with  two  big  silver 
buckles. 

*  That  isn't  mine,  Alastair.     It's  Aliria  Stuart's.     See  1 ' 

'  Never  mind  ;  you  won't  hurt  it.  Come  on,  or  the  thing'll 
be  over  in  a  minute.' 

So  Alastair  took  her  on  his  arm,  and  led  her  out  to  the 
terrace,  where  it  was  quiet  and  delicious,  for  the  night  was 
wonderfully  mild  for  December.  It  was  like  to  be  a  green 
Yule,  though  they  had  had  several  snow  showers  up  at 
Amulree. 

'Sheila,  nobody  in  there  can  hold  a  candle  to  you. 
We  are  all  proud  of  you,'  began  Alastair,  in  his  outspoken 
fashion. 

'How  can  you  speak  such  utter  nonsense,  Alastair 
Murray  ? ' 

4  It  is  not  nonsense ;  it's  gospel,'  said  Alastair,  too  much 
in  earnest  to  be  particular  about  his  words.  '  I  hope  you 
won't  go  and  take  up  with  any  of  these  fellows,  and  —  and 
marry  them.' 

'  How  many  of  them  ? ' 

'Oh,  well,  one,  of  course.  But  you  needn't  laugh  at  me, 
Sheila.  I'm  awfully  fond  of  you.  I  don't  suppose,  now,  you 


288  SHEILA. 

could  care  anything  for  a  big,  rough  chap  like  me,  could 
you  ? ' 

'  I  do  care  a  great  deal  for  you,  Alastair,'  said  Sheila,  not 
thinking,  perhaps,  of  the  hidden  meaning  in  her  cousin's  words. 
Her  heart — ay,  and  her  thoughts — were  in  Edinburgh  with 
Fergus  Macleod.  Was  she  now  beginning  to  awaken  to  the 
pain  and  yearning  of  her  womanhood?  Alastair  saw  the  pre- 
occupied look.  There  was  nothing  in  the  frank,  cousinly 
avowal  to  encourage  him ;  nevertheless  he  went  bravely 
on, 

'  Tou  don't  understand  me,  Sheila.  I — I  care  about  you  in 
a  different  way.  I  love  you,  Sheila.' 

'  Oh,  Alastair,  don't  say  such  a  dreadful  thing  I '  cried  Sheila, 
with  crimson  face,  and  hastily  withdrawing  her  hand  from 
his  arm. 

'  It  isn't  dreadful — at  least  to  me,'  said  poor  Alastair,  quite 
humbly.  '  I'm  in  earnest,  Sheila.  Don't  you  think,  after  a 
while,  you  might  like  me  in  that  way  ? ' 

'  Oh,  never  1  it  is  quite  impossible,'  said  Sheila,  quite 
decidedly.  '  Don't  let  us  be  so  foolish.  We  are  cousins  and 
chums,  Alastair,  and  will  never  be  anything  else.  Don't  look  so 
miserable.  You'll  find  you  won't  care  anything  to-mornnv. 
You'll  laugh  at  yourself.' 

'  Will  I  ? '  Alastair  pulled  his  yellow  moustache  rather 
savagely.  '  That's  the  way  you  girls  speak.  You  know 
nothing  about  a  man's  feelings,  and  care  less.' 

'  I  do  care,  Alastair,'  said  Sheila  softly ;  and  he  saw  she  was 
vexed. 

'Don't  make  that  kind  of  face,  Sheila.  You  make  me  feel 
that  I  am  a  wretch.  Come  on  in,  and  be  my  partner  at  tea, 
and  Fll  never  speak  of  it  again, — at  least,  for  a  long  time. 
Don't  you  hear  them  playing  "Lady  Anne  Lindsay"?  it's 
grand.' 

Sheila  smiled,  and  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  again. 

'  Before  we  go  in,  Alastair,'  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  as 
they  came  near  the  open  door,  'will  you  tell  me  if  it  is 
true  that  Fergus  Macleod  is  not  behaving  himself  in  Edin- 
burgh?' 


ALASTAIR'S  WOOING. 


280 


'  Poor  fellow !  he's  awfully  down  in  the  mouth,  and  perhaps 
he  has  gone  a  little  off  the  straight ;  but  he'll  never  do  any- 
thing verv  bad.'  said  Alastair,  with  a  manly  kindness  which 
showed  his  true,  honest  heart.  'Don't  vex  yourself  about  him, 
Sheila,  and  don't  mind  what  I  said.  I — I  forgot  about  Fergus 
Macleod,' 


CHAPTER  XXXIH. 


THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  THE  TEAR. 

The  price  one  pays  for  pride  is  mountain  high, 
There  is  a  curse  beyond  the  rack  of  death, 
The  curse  of  a  high  spirit,  famishing 
Because  all  earth  out  sickens  it. 

BAILEY. 

was  the  last  night  of  the  year,  a  night  of  blinding 
snowdrift,  in  which  it  was  unsafe  to  be  out  of 
doors.  The  wind  was  sweeping  up  Glenquaich 
with  a  terrific  force,  and  howling  round  Shonnen 
with  many  an  eerie,  uncanny  noise.  By  her  melancholy  hearth, 
with  her  arms  folded  across  her  breast,  sat  Ellen  Macleod 
alone,  thinking  of  her  son.  The  last  night  of  the  year  I — other 
mothers  had  their  bairns  gathered  about  the  hearth ;  even  the 
poorest  household  in  the  Glen  made  some  attempt  at  social, 
happy  renunion  on  the  last  night  of  the  year.  But  in  the 
house  of  Shonnen  that  desolate  and  miserable  woman  was  alone 
with  her  anxiety  and  her  regrets.  She  wished  she  had  been 
less  hard  with  her  one  son.  She  thought  if  he  would  but  come 
in,  she  would  give  him  a  welcome  such  as  he  had  never 
received.  She  even  planned  a  letter  she  should  write  on  the 
morrow,  asking  him  to  come  home,  and  telling  him  she  would 
no  longer  insist  that  he  should  follow  in  the  path  she  had 
marked  out.  It  had  been  a  long,  dreary  day ;  it  was  even  then 


THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  THE  YEAR.  291 

only  half-past  seven,  and  each  minute  seemed  like  an  hour,  not 
only  to  her,  but  to  poor  Jessie  Mackenzie,  whose  service  at 
Shonnen  was  rather  a  trial  for  a  girl  who  had  been  brought 
up  among  eight  brothers  and  sisters,  and  loved  cheerful  com- 
pany. But  it  was  an  easy  phice,  and  she  had  got  into  Mrs. 
Macleod's  way,  and  was,  on  the  whole,  comfortable  enough. 
She  was  trying  to  make  herself  happy  in  the  kitchen,  by  the 
side  of  the  blazing  peat  fire,  finishing  a  brilliant  purple  Tarn  o' 
Shanter  for  the  shepherd  at  Garrows,  who  was  her  '  lad,'  but 
who  was  strictly  forbidden  to  come  and  see  her  at  Shonnen. 
Their  only  chance  of  meeting  was  on  Sunday  nights,  as  her 
mistress  could  not  control  her  when  she  was  out  of  the  house. 

About  ten  minutes  to  eight,  both  women  were  startled  by  a 
loud  and  continuous  knocking  at  the  door.  Both  sprang  up, 
and  ran  out  into  the  dimly-lighted  hall,  where  they  looked  at 
each  other  in  amazement,  which  was  partly  apprehension. 

Indeed,  Jessie  Mackenzie's  teeth  were  chattering  in  her 
head,  but  Mrs.  Macleod  was  neither  a  timid  nor  a  nervous 
woman. 

'Oh,  ma'am,  dinna  open  the  door!  It'll  be  the  tinks,' 
pleaded  the  girl  tremblingly.  'There  was  a  great  tribe  o' 
them  cam'  up  the  Sma'  Glen  the  day,  an'  we  hinna  a  man  in 
the  house.' 

4  Who's  there?' asked  Mrs.  Macleod,  approaching  the  door, 
which,  however,  she  did  not  unlock. 

'It's  me;  confound  you!  can't  you  let  me  in  ? '  said  a  thick, 
angry  voice,  which,  however,  she  instantly  recognised ;  and  in 
a  moment  the  door  was  flung  open,  and  the  son  of  the  house, 
covered  with  snow  from  head  to  foot,  came  in.  They  did  not 
notice  anything  peculiar  in  his  gait  or  manner  just  at  first. 
Jessie,  with  whom  he  was  a  great  favourite,  ran  for  the  carpet 
switch  to  sweep  the  snow  from  his  coat  and  boots,  but  his 
mother  was  almost  speechless  with  amazement. 

'Why  in  the  world  have  you  come  home  to-day,  in  a 
storm  like  this,  too  ? '  she  asked.  '  How  did  you  get  up  ? 
Where  have  you  come  from  ? ' 

'From,  Edinburgh,  of  course,'  he  answered,  quite  rudely, 
in  a  manner  so  different  from  his  own  that  his  mother  started. 


292  SHEILA. 

He  threw  his  wet  coat  and  hat  on  the  hall  floor,  and  marched 
into  the  dining-room,  his  snowy  feet  making  wet  marks  on  the 
carpet  all  the  way.  His  mother  noticed  then  that  he  seemed 
to  walk  unsteadily,  and  that  there  was  something  strange  about 
him  altogether.  An  awful  fear  took  possession  of  her;  but 
she  was  equal  to  the  occasion.  She  stepped  forward,  and  drew 
to  the  dining-room  door,  just  as  the  maid  came  out  of  the 
kitchen  with  the  brush  and  a  towel  in  her  hand. 

'  Take  Mr.  Fergus's  coat  and  hat  to  the  kitchen  and  shake 
them,  Jessie,  and  put  on  the  kettle,'  said  Ellen  Macleod, 
without  a  tremor  in  her  voice.  '  You  can  come  for  the  boots 
when  I  ring.  He  is  very  tired,  I  see.  He  has  walked  from 
Dunkeld.' 

Jessie,  suspecting  nothing,  proceeded  to  obey  her  mistress, 
who  then  went  into  the  dining-room.  Fergus  had  a  chair 
planted  straight  before  the  fire,  and  the  soles  of  his  boots  stuck 
against  the  red-hot  bars  of  the  grate.  The  water  was  running 
off  them  on  to  the  polished  steel  ash-pan,  and  a  cloud  of  steam 
was  rising  about  him.  His  mother  went  straight  to  the  hearth, 
and  surveyed  him  a  moment  in  silence.  What  she  endured 
during  that  instant  was  fearful. 

'  Well  ? '  he  said,  with  a  rude  laugh.  '  Will  you  know  me 
again?  Get  out  the  bottle,  and  let  us  drink  to  the  New  Year. 
It'll  soon  be  here.' 

She  turned  her  head  away,  for  her  face  was  grey  with  the 
sharp  pain  at  her  heart.  It  was  a  physical  pain,  brought  on 
by  the  shock.  Was  that  her  boy — that  pale,  haggard,  dissipated- 
looking  young  man,  with  the  bleared  red  eyes  and  hollow 
cheeks,  his  hand  shaking  with  nervousness  as  he  clutched  the 
back  of  the  chair?  Had  she  driven  him  to  this? 

'Get  out  the  bottle,'  he  reiterated,  giving  the  fire  a  kick 
with  his  singed  boot.  '  It's  a  sorry  welcome  for  a  fellow  after 
a  ten-mile  walk.  What  are  you  staring  at? ' 

'  At  you.  I  can  not  believe  that  you  are  my  son,'  came  at 
length  from  between  her  pale  lips. 

'Fact,  though, — him  in  the  flesh.  He  needs  a  little  spirit 
though,' he  said,  with  a  hideous  leer.  'Is  there  anything  in 
the  sideboard?' 


THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  THE   YEAR.  293 

The  shock  of  agony  over, — for  it  was  agony  to  that  proud 
woman  to  see  her  noble  son  thus  debased, — her  temper  rose. 
Had  she  been  wise,  she  would  have  held  her  peace,  but  in  her 
state  of  mind  at  the  time,  perhaps  it  was  too  much  to  expect 
from  her. 

'What  do  you  mean/  she  demanded  fiercely,  'coming  home 
to  disgrace  me  in  this  state?  The  stories  I  have  heard  of 
your  misdeeds  are  all  too  true,  I  see ;  but  I  hoped  you  would 
have  respect  enough  for  me  to  come  home  sober,  at  least.' 

'  Draw  it  mild,  old  lady ;  you  should  be  thankful  I'm  here 
at  all.  I  had  a  job  getting  up  that  beastly  road,  I  can  tell 
you.  Fetch  out  the  bottle,  I  say,  and  give  us  a  pull  for  my 
pains.' 

He  rose,  and  made  a  move  towards  the  sideboard ;  but  in 
an  instant  his  mother  had  turned  the  key,  and  slipped  it  into 
her  pocket.  Fergus  was  in  a  half-maudlin  state,  too  drunk, 
indeed,  to  be  angry. 

'  I'll  get  my  coat.  There's  a  nip  or  two  left  in  it  yet,'  he 
said,  opening  the  door.  '  It's  away  !  Here,  Jessie  Mackenzie  ! 
bring  that  coat,  and  be  smart  about  it,'  he  cried  at  the  top 
of  his  voice. 

Before  his  mother  could  countermand  the  order,  Jessie,  in 
amazement,  came  hurrying  out  with  the  coat. 

Forgetful  of  everything  but  her  determination  to  keep  the 
stuff  from  him,  Ellen  Macleod  took  the  bottle  from  the  pocket, 
and  threw  it  on  the  stone  floor,  where  it  shivered  to  atoms. 
Then  of  course  Fergus  swore,  and,  turning  open  the  outer  door, 
he  darted  out. 

Til  get  it  from  Uncle  Graham  at  Dalmore,'  they  heard  him 
mutter,  and  the  next  moment  he  was  lost  in  the  darkness  and 
swirl  of  the  drift. 

A  low  cry,  which  Jessie  never  forgot,  broke  from  Ellen  Mac- 
leod's  lips,  and  she  darted  after  him,  but  was  almost  blinded  in 
a  moment. 

'  Come  back,  ma'am !  oh,  come  back !  Ye'll  be  buried  and 
killed  1 '  cried  Jessie,  shaking  with  excitement  and  terror,  for  such 
a  thing  had  never  happened  in  the  quiet  house  of  Shonnen  before. 

Ellen  Macleod  did  not  go  far.      She  had  not  lost  her  senses 


294  SHEILA. 

quite,  and  she  saw  that  it  was  useless.  She  came  back  into 
the  house,  and  shut  the  door  with  a  hand  which  did  not  falter ; 
but  her  face  was  awful  to  see. 

'He  has  gone  to  his  death,  Jessie  Mackenzie;  no  human 
being  can  seek  him  on  a  night  like  this.  God  help  him  and 
me!' 

Then  Jessie  fell  to  weeping,  and  even  offered  to  struggle 
up  to  the  inn  and  get  men  to  look  for  him,  but  her  mistress 
only  shook  her  head,  and,  passing  into  the  dining-room,  again 
shut  herself  in.  Jessie  Mackenzie  wandered  up  and  down  the 
hall,  wringing  her  hands  in  misery,  trembling  still  from  the 
excitement.  The  whole  thing  had  happened  so  suddenly,  and 
had  passed  so  quickly,  that  it  was  like  a  dream. 

Ellen  Macleod  was  alone  with  her  agony,  and  it  did  its  work. 
Her  face  worked  convulsively,  her  lips  were  bleeding  with  her 
effort  to  keep  them  still,  her  hands  shook,  nay,  her  whole  proud 
figure  trembled  as  if  it  had  received  a  shock.  Once  a  long 
moan  broke  from  her  lips,  and  then,  as  if  unable  to  bear  the 
tumult  of  her  soul,  she  knelt  down  by  the  table,  and  pressed 
her  brow  upon  the  hard  edge  until  it  made  a  deep  red  mark. 
But  she  did  not  feel  that  it  hurt  her.  In  moments  of  such 
intense  mental  anguish  the  physical  is  as  nothing.  God  was 
dealing  sharply  with  this  strange  woman.  Hard  of  heart,  she 
needed  a  hard  discipline.  Would  it  avail?  Would  it  fulfil  its 
desired  end  ?  In  that  position  she  knelt,  battling  with  her  pain, 
until  the  dead  ashes  dropped  from  the  grate,  and  the  lamp  went 
out  with  a  feeble  flicker,  leaving  the  room  cold  and  dark.  In 
that  position  the  grey  dawn  of  the  New  Year's  morning  found 
her. 

Miss  Murray  Macdonald  had  returned  to  Dalmore  on  the 
29th  of  December ;  they  could  not  persuade  her  to  remain 
for  the  New  Year's  festivities  at  Murrayshaugh.  She  left 
Miss  Gordon  at  the  manse,  however,  to  spend  New  Year  with 
her  family,  and  came  up  alone  on  a  snell,  bitter  afternoon, 
when  a  few  stray  snowflakes  were  scudding  before  the  north 
wind.  If  Yule  was  green,  it  bade  fair  to  be  a  white  Hog- 
manay. 


THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  THE  YEAR.  295 

Sheila  had  enjoyed  herself  thoroughly  at  Murray shaugh, 
bul  she  was  unfeignedly  glad  to  be  home.  Dalmore  might  be 
a  burden  on  her  shoulders,  but  she  loved  the  place  with  a 
surpassing  love.  Though  she  was  so  young,  and  had  a  bright, 
gay,  happy  spirit,  she  was  never  dull,  even  when  alone  in  her 
rambling  old  house.  She  had  her  pony  and  her  rambles  out 
of  doors,  her  books,  painting,  and  music  in  the  bouse,  therefore 
time  did  not  hang  heavy  on  her  hands.  She  was  neither  indolent 
nor  difficult  to  please.  Cameron,  the  housekeeper,  who  adored 
her,  said  she  was  the  most  industrious  young  lady  she  had  ever 
seen,  and  Cameron  had  spent  all  her  life  in  service. 

On  the  last  night  of  the  year  Sheila  was  alone  in  the  drawing- 
room.  Tory  lay  snugly  'curled  up  in  a  corner  of  the  couch,  with 
his  presuming  little  head  on  a  crimson  satin  hand-painted 
cushion.  Tory  was  undoubtedly  a  spoiled  dog,  but  he  was 
very,  very  old  now,  and  his  young  mistress  indulged  him  to  the 
top  of  his  bent.  On  the  hearth-rug  lay  a  noble  staghound,  who, 
it  must  be  confessed,  was  a  formidable  rival  to  Tory.  He  was 
a  gift  from  the  Murrayshaugh  boys,  and  rejoiced  in  the  name 
of  Whig.  In  Miss  Murray  Macdonald's  drawing-room  politics 
were  at  a  discount,  for  Whig  and  Tory  both  agreed.  It  was 
nine  o'clock,  and  Sheila  began  to  yawn  a  little  over  her  work, 
and  to  wish  the  supper  tray  would  come  in.  Suddenly  Tory 
pricked  up  his  ears,  and  Whig,  lifting  up  his  grand  head,  sent 
forth  one  deep,  warning  bark.  Sheila  rose  in  some  surprise. 
They  kept  early  hours  at  Dalmore ;  she  fancied  the  doors 
would  be  all  locked,  and  some  of  the  servants  already  in  bed. 
There  was  not  a  sound  to  be  heard  ;  even  the  wind  seemed 
to  breathe  quietly  round  Dalmore,  and  drifting  snow  makes 
no  noise.  But  presently  there  was  a  quick  knock  at  the 
drawing-room  door,  and  Cameron,  looking  somewhat  scared, 
came  in. 

'  What  is  it,  Cameron  ? '  asked  Sheila,  fearing  something,  she 
scarcely  knew  what. 

4  Miss  Sheila,  a  strange  thing  has  happened.  Mr.  Fergus 
Macleod  has  come,  and ' — 

'What  does  he  want?  Why  did  you  not  bring  him  up  at 
once?  Tell  him  to  come  up  now,  Cameron,'  said  Sheila 


296  SHEILA. 

quickly ;  and   the  sweet  colour  flushed   all  her  fair  face  witl. 
a  crimson  glow. 

'Oh,  I  couldn't,  Miss  Sheila.  He's  not  right,  poor  young 
gentleman  1 ' 

'  What  is  the  matter  with  him  ?  I'll  go  and  see  him.  Is 
lie  in  the  library  ? '  said  Sheila,  with  an  apprehensive  look. 
She  could  not  understand  the  hesitation  in  the  housekeeper's 
manner,  and  it  irritated  her. 

'O  no,  you  mustn't  go  down,'  said  Cameron,  laying  a 
detaining  hand  on  the  arm  of  her  young  mistress.  'He  has 
had  too  much  drink,  I  think,  Miss  Sheila,  and  he  has  come 
seeking  his  Uncle  Graham,  he  says.  I  tried  to  persuade  him 
to  go  quietly  away,  but  he  won't ;  he  is  in  the  library,  sitting 
quietly,  thinking  I  have  gone  to  fetch  the  L;\ird.' 

Sheila  grew  white  to  the  lips,  and  began  to  tremble.  The 
housekeeper  saw  her  put  a  check  on  herself,  and  clench  her 
hands  to  keep  them  still.  She  turned  her  large,  earnest  eyes 
Cull  on  the  housekeeper's  face,  with  a  half-resolute,  half-pathetic 
look. 

'  I  shall  go  down.  Come  with  me,  Cameron,  but  remain  out 
of  the  room.  Perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  make  him  go  quietly 
away.' 

She  spoke  with  evident  effort.  She  had  received  a  shock 
which  made  her  feel  weak  and  ill.  She  could  not  believe  it  of 
Fergus.  She  wished  to  see  for  herself.  Her  tone  was  imper- 
ative ;  Cameron  had  never  heard  it  more  so,  and  she  turned 
silently  and  opened  the  door. 

'Who  let  him  in?'  Sheila  turned  on  the  stairs  to  ask. 

'  I  did,  Miss  Slieila.  The  girls  are  in  bed,  and  Hamish 
dozing  over  the  fire.' 

'Nobody  saw  him  but  you,  then?1 

'  Nobody,  Miss  Sheila.' 

'  I  am  glad  of  tl.at,'  said  Sheila  simply  ;  and  the  housekeeper 
wiped  a  tear  from  her  own  eyes. 

Sheila  did  not  hesitate  at  the  library  door,  but  turned  the 
handle,  and  went  in  with  swift,  unfaltering  steps.  The  library 
was  used  as  a  dining-room  when  the  ladies  were  alone,  and  the 
fire  burned  in  it  all  day  in  winter,  Cameron  had  turned  up 


THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  THE  YEAR.     297 

the  lamp,  and  there  was  Fergus,  sitting  on  the  corner  of  the 
sofay  with  his  head  laid  down  on  the  pillow,  sound  asleep.  Tired 
with  his  fight  through  the  snowdrift,  the  warm  air  of  the  room 
had  overpowered  him,  and  he  had  succumbed  the  moment  he 
sat  down.  Sheila  stood  a  moment  by  the  table,  and  looked  at 
him.  She  was  very  straight  and  erect,  and  her  face  was  per- 
fectly white.  The  look  upon  it  might  have  recalled  his  wander- 
ing senses,  but  he  seemed  perfectly  unconscious.  Sheila  turned 
about  at  length,  and,  going  to  the  door,  beckoned  to  the  house- 
keeper, who  was  in  the  hall.  Then  both  left  the  room,  and 
Sheila,  undoing  the  bolts  of  the  hall  door,  tried  to  look  out,  but 
the  soft  snow  swept  in  upon  her,  and  a  sudden  wind  blast  nearly 
blew  out  the  hall  lamp. 

'  Shut  the  door,  Cameron,  and  put  up  the  bolts,'  said  Sheila 
decidedly.  '  No  one  can  leave  Dalmore  to-night.  What  are 
we  to  do  ? ' 

'  It  would  be  a  cruel  shame  to  set  him  out  alone.  He  would 
never  reach  Shonnen  alive,  Miss  Sheila,  but  would  only  creep 
into  a  dyke-side,  and  fall  into  a  sleep  he  would  never  waken 
from,  said  Cameron.  '  And  if  we  set  Ilamish  with  him,  the 
whole  paiish  will  have  the  story  before  dinner  -  time  to- 
morrow.' 

•  i'hen  he  must  stay  here,'  said  Sheila.  Her  eyes  were 
glittering.  In  spite  of  her  perfect  calmness,  she  was  labouring 
under  the  most  intense  excitement. 

'  I'll  tell  ye  what,  Miss  Sheila,  I'll  build  up  the  fire  in  the 
library,  and  let  him  abe.  He'll  tak'  no  harm,  poor  lad  I  They 
say  Providence  takes  care  o'  bairns  an'  foolish  lads  like  him,' 
said  Cameron.  '  I'll  lie  down  myself  in  the  bed  in  the  Laird's 
room,  an'  I'll  hear  him  if  he  moves.  And  I  promise  ye  I'll  get 
him  away  from  Dalmore  in  the  mornin'  afore  there's  a  move- 
ment in  the  house.' 

4  I'll  see  him  before  he  goes.  I  shall  not  be  asleep,'  said 
Sheila.  'Be  kind  to  him,  Cameron,  for  my  sake.' 

'Bless  ye,  my  bairn  1  an'  him  an'  a','  said  Cameron  fervently. 
*  He'll  be  a  braw  man  for  a'  this  yet.  It'll  maybe  be  the  makin' 
o'  hirn  to  hae  sleepit  this  nicht  in  Diilmore.' 

Sheila  smiled  a  wan  smile,  and  crept  away  upstairs.     She 


298  SHEILA. 

passed  by  the  drawing-room,  where  the  dogs  were  whining  at 
the  door,  and  went  along  the  corridor  to  her  mother's  room. 
Two  hearts  were  breaking  that  night  for  Fergus  Macleod's 
misdoing. 

Sheila  threw  herself  across  the  bed,  and  her  grief  found  vent 
in  one  low,  passionate  cry,— 

4  Oh,  mamma  1  mamma  1 ' 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

NEW  YEAR'S  MORN. 

For  mercy  has  a  human  heart, 

Pity  a  human  face  ; 
And  love  the  human  form  divine, 

And  peace  the  human  dress. 

WILLIAM  BLACK. 

ERGUS  MACLEOD  slept  soundly  until  four  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  Cameron,  sitting  with  a  plaid 
round  her  in  the  Laird's  arm-chair  in  the  adjoining 
room,  heard  him  move,  and,  the  bedroom  door 
being  ajar,  she  could  see  him  quite  well.  He  sat  up,  rubbed 
his  eyes,  and  stared  round  him.  He  did  not  seem  to  realize 
at  first  where  he  was.  There  was  a  glowing  fire  in  the  wide 
grate,  and  the  lamp  was  burning  on  the  table.  The  room 
had  never  looked  more  home-like  and  familiar,  but  what  room 
was  it?  But  for  the  weight  of  her  sorrow  and  anxiety  both 
for  him  and  her  mistress,  the  housekeeper  could  have  laughed 
at  the  look  of  utter  helplessness  and  perplexity  in  his  face.  He 
got  up  at  length,  shook  himself,  and  took  a  turn  round  the 
room.  Then  he  stopped  straight  opposite  the  fireplace,  and 
Cameron  saw  him  fix  his  eyes  on  the  portrait  of  his  uncle's 
wife,  which  hung  above  the  mantel-shelf.  These  sweet,  serious 
eyes  seemed  to  be  bent  upon  him  in  mild,  sorrowing  surprise. 
He  started,  and  drew  his  hand  quickly  across  his  brow. 


300  SHEILA, 

'  Aunt  Edith!'  he  said.  '  Heavens  !  I  am  at  Dalmore!  What 
d  jes  it  mean  ? ' 

The  housekeeper  rose,  and  made  a  movement  with  her  chair 
to  attract  his  attention  before  she  entered  his  presence. 

'Mr.  Fergus,'  she  said  gently,  'sit  down,  and  I'll  explain  to 
you  how  you  came  here.' 

He  looked  at  her  in  dumb  amazement,  and  then  sat  down  as 
obediently  as  a  child.  He  was  quite  sober  now,  but  he  did  not 
realize  his  situation.  He  felt  like  a  man  awaking  from  some 
bewildering  dream. 

'  Don't  you  remember  coming  up  last  night,  Mr.  Fergus,  and 
asking  for  your  Uncle  Graham  ? ' 

He  shook  his  head. 

'  I  don't  remember  anything  but  getting  out  at  Dunkeld 
station,  and  ploughing  up  the  road  through  the  snow,'  he  said,  try- 
ing to  make  memory  perform  her  function.  '  When  did  I  come?' 

'  At  nine  o'clock.' 

4  Were  you  anywhere  else  on  the  road?' 

'  Yes,  I  was  at  home,'  he  said,  starting  up.  '  I  remember  my 
mother,  and  she  was  frightfully  angry.  Cameron,  I  was  drunk  1 
What  state  was  I  in  when  I  came  here?' 

'  You  had  had  too  much.  I  saw  it  at  once,  Mr.  Fergus,'  said 
Cameron,  feeling  an  intense  pity  for  him.  The  awakening  was 
a  fearful  experience  for  Fergus  Macleod.  The  veins  on  his 
broad  white  brow  were  swollen  like  knotted  cords ;  the 
perspiration  stood  in  great  beads  on  his  face. 

'Tell  me  all  about  it,  Cameron.  What  did  I  do?  Was  I 
wild  ?  Did  I  make  any  disturbance  ? ' 

'  0  no,  none.     Nobody  saw  you  but  Miss  Sheila  and  me.' 

She  told  him  purposely.  She  wished  him  to  suffer;  to  have 
his  wholesome  lesson  without  alleviation.  It  might,  as  she  had 
said,  be  his  salvation. 

'  Did  she  see  me  ?     O  my  God  I ' 

There  was  no  irreverence  in  the  exclamation.  It  was  wrung 
from  him  by  keen  mental  anguish.  Before  Cameron  could 
reply,  the  door  into  the  hall  was  softly  opened,  and  Sheila 
herself  stole  in.  She  had  never  undressed.  She  still  wore  her 
warm  grey  tweed  gown,  and  a  white  linen  collar,  fastened  by 


NEW  YEAR'S  MORN.  301 

a  big  purple  cairngorm  at  her  throat.  The  linen  was  not 
whiter  than  her  face.  She  had  kept  her  vigil  all  the  night 
long  in  her  mother's  room.  It  was  directly  above  the  library, 
and,  in  the  absolute  stillness  of  the  house,  she  had  easily  heard 
the  sound  of  their  voices  below.  It  could  not  reach  the  other 
inmates  of  the  house,  who  were  sleeping  in  the  remote  wing. 
When  her  young  mistress  entered,  Cameron  slipped  out.  Her 
eyes  were  wet,  her  heart  sore,  for  these  two  young  creature?, 
who  loved  each  other,  and  who  met  in  such  strange  and  sad 
circumstances. 

'I  thought  I  should  like  to  see  you,  Fergus,'  Sheila  said, 
'  before  you  went  away.' 

Her  voice  was  of  surpassing  sweetness,  her  accent  gentle  and 
kind,  but  with  a  ring  of  mournfulness  in  it.  Perhaps  her 
girlish  idol  was  shattered  ;  and  that,  to  a  sensitive  heart,  is 
something  of  a  trial.  He  swung  round,  gave  her  one  startled 
look,  and  then,  flinging  himself  on  the  couch  again,  gave  way 
to  tears.  They  were  tears  of  bitterest  penitence  and  shame. 
The  noise  of  his  sobbing  disturbed  Sheila.  She  walked  over  to 
the  fireplace,  and,  leaning  her  arm  on  the  oak  shelf  above  it, 
stood  very  still.  Her  tears  were  all  shed.  It  was  as  if  the 
face  of  the  mother  in  the  picture  on  the  wall  was  moved  with 
compassion  for  them  both.  The  mild,  beautiful  eyes  seemed 
almost  to  speak.  No  doubt  her  spirit  was  there.  Sheila  felt 
comforted  and  strengthened  to  go  through  this  ordeal.  She 
had  something  to  say  to  Fergus.  She  felt  that  God  would 
guide  her  tongue. 

At  last  he  grew  calmer,  and  stood  up,  and  looked  at  the 
slight  figure  of  the  young  girl  by  the  hearth. 

'I  shall  go  away,  Sheila,  without  asking  you  to  forgive  me. 
I  shall  never  forgive  myself.  I  have  disgraced  my  own  name, 
my  uncle's  memory,  and  your  home.  Good-bye.' 

He  gave  his  head  a  slight  inclination,  and  turned  to  go ;  but 
Sheila's  look  held  him  back. 

'Not  yet.  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  Fergus.  Why 
should  I  not  forgive  you?  I  will  not  say  you  have  not  done 
wrong,  but  I  cannot  let  you  go  ft-eling  as  you  do  at  this  moment. 
I  could  not  do  it  to  a  stranger,  least  of  all  to  you.' 


302  SHEILA. 

'You  are  too  kind,  but  your  kindness  cannot  lighten  my 
burden  of  shame,  Sheila.  As  I  live,  I  know  not  what  tempted 
me  to  degrade  myself  before  you]  he  said,  with  passion. 

'  Better  to  me  than  to  strangers,  Fergus,'  she  said  sadly ;  but 
the  kind  look  never  left  her  face.  *  I  will  tell  you  I  was  not 
so  much  surprised,  because  I  had  heard  you  had  gone  off  the 
straight  path  a  little.  But  you  will  find  it  again,  and  walk 
stedfastly  in  it,  for  your  own  sake  and  for  mine.' 

'For  yours?  Then  you  do  not  altogether  hate  and  despise 
me,  Sheila  ? '  cried  the  unhappy  young  man,  with  a  gleam  of 
hope  in  his  melancholy  eyes. 

'Despise  and  hate  you,  after  all  that  is  past,  Fergus?'  said 
Sheila  reproachfully.  '  I  cannot,  cannot  do  that ;  for  I  feel — 
indeed  I  do,  and  it  is  well-nigh  breaking  my  heart — that  had 
I  not  robbed  you  of  your  inheritance,  you  would  have  been 
a  different  man.  You  would  have  been  reigning  here,  the 
honoured  and  beloved  Laird  of  Dalmore.* 

These  words  caused  Fergus  Macleod  the  deepest  surprise  and 
concern.  He  saw  how  deeply  Sheila  felt  what  she  was  saying, 
and  again  he  cursed  his  own  folly.  He  saw  that  she  took 
blame  to  herself  for  his  sin.  He  could  have  knelt  at  her  feet 
and  besought  her  forgiveness  anew,  but  the  look  on  her  face 
deterred  him. 

'Hush,  hush!'  he  said  hurriedly.  'Do  you  think  I  have 
ever  grudged  Dalmore  to  you?  When  I  hear  how  they  speak 
your  name,  and  see  what  you  have  done  for  the  place  and 
the  people,  I  am  thankful  that  it  is  in  your  hands  and  not  in 
mine.  When  I  leave  here,  Sheila,  you  shall  never  see  me 
again,  but  in  all  your  efforts  for  the  people's  good,  in  all  your 
generous,  noble  kindness,  be  sure  that  no  blessing  or  congratu- 
lation can  be  truer  than  that  of  Fergus  Macleod,  unworthy 
though  he  be.' 

There  was  a  flush  now  upon  Sheila's  cheek,  and  her  eye 
filled  with  apprehension. 

'Where  are  you  going,  Fergus?'  she  asked,  somewhat 
falteringly. 

'  After  last  night,  I  hardly  think  my  mother  will  care  to 
keep  me  at  home,'  replied  he,  with  a  slight  shudder.  'She 


NEW  YE  AX'S  MORN.  303 

will  be  glad  to  send  me  where  all  the  scapegoats  are  sent, — 
across  the  sea.' 

'You  seem  proud  of  your  character,'  said  Sheila,  with 
slightly  curling  lip,  for  her  righteous  anger  rose  at  his  tone, 
which  did  no  honour  to  his  manhood.  But  suddenly  her  mood 
changed ;  her  face  became  beautiful  with  the  tenderness  of  her 
heart;  her  eye  shone  with  a  high  resolve.  The  time  had  come 
for  her  to  exercise  the  woman's  privilege,  not  only  to  comfort, 
but  to  spur  on  to  highest  endeavour;  and  so  her  childhood 
went  away  for  ever  from  Sheila  Macdonald. 

1  Fergus,  I  will  not  say  you  must  not  go, — nay,  I  think  now 
it  would  be  better  to  break  all  the  old  ties,  and  begin  anew. 
Promise  me  that,  for  the  sake  of  the  old  time,  you  will  begir 
anew,  and  try  to  live  your  life  nobly.  I  have  expected  so 
much.  I  do  expect  it  still  from  you.  There  will  never  be  to 
me  a  second  Fergus  Macleod.  Don't  disappoint  me.  There 
is  no  grand  achievement  or  noble  height  which  I  have  not 
believed  you  could  reach.  Only  on  condition  that  you  will 
fulfil  my  dreams  will  I  say  good-bye,  and  bid  you  God  speed ! ' 

Surely  the  words  were  Heaven-given.  They  infused  new 
life  into  Fergus  Macleod ;  they  showed  him  the  possibilities  of 
life.  They  even  assured  him  that  one  fall  need  not  mean 
constant  grovelling,  that  hope  had  a  benison  for  him  yet.  In 
a  word,  they  made  him  a  man.  He  drew  himself  up  ;  a  light 
came  into  his  blue  eye  something  like  the  flashing  light  of  old ; 
he  gave  his  mouth  a  determined  curve.  Sheila  saw  that  he 
was  saved. 

'  So  help  me  God,  I  will  1 '  he  said,  and  these  words  were  a 
vow.  '  I  promise  to  you,  before  God,  that  from  this  day  I  am 
a  different  man.  In  addition  to  all  you  have  done  for  others, 
Sheila,  you  have  saved  me.  Yes,  as  I  live,  I  believe  had  you 
treated  me  differently,  my  shame  and  horror  would  have  sent 
me  straight  to  destruction.' 

'  No,  no ;  you  are  not  wholly  bad,'  said  Sheila,  with  a  slight 
smile,  which  was  more  pathetic  than  her  former  deep  gravity. 
'  Go,  then,  Fergus ;  some  day,  not  far  distant,  I  trust,  I  shall 
be  proud  of  my  friend.' 

She  extended  her  hand,  but  he  shook  his  head. 


304  SHEILA. 

'  I  am  not  worthy  to  touch  it/  he  said.  '  If  that  same  day 
ever  comes,  Sheila,  I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  stand  in  your 
presence  without  shame,  and  tell  you  what  I  owe  to  you.' 

She  took  a  step  forward  then,  and,  seeing  he  was  going, 
followed  him  out  to  the  door.  When  he  set  it  open,  they  sa\v 
that  the  storm  had  ceased.  The  lowering  clouds  were  drifting 
across  the  sky,  but  right  above  where  they  stood  there  was  a 
clear  patch  of  blue,  in  which  many  stars  were  shining. 

1  Stars  of  promise,'  Sheila  said ;  and  then  they  stood  for  a 
moment  in  a  silence  which  touched  them  both  with  solemnity. 
The  past  half-hour  had  been  one  of  keen  tension  for  both,  and 
now  the  shadow,  perhaps,  of  an  eternal  parting  was  upon 
them. 

It  was  not  wonderful  that  Fergus  had  nothing  to  say  now, 
still  less  that  Sheila's  lips  should  be  silent  There  had  been 
too  much  between  them,  to  part  with  words  of  commonplace 
farewell. 

4  It  will  be  dawn  soon.  I  must  go/  said  Fergus  ;  and  their 
eyes  met.  In  that  look  the  heart  of  each  was  revealed  to  the 
other.  Sheila  turned  about,  and,  gliding  into  the  house,  closed 
the  door.  Then  Fergus  Macleod  knelt  down  on  the  snow- 
covered  doorstep,  and  prayed.  When  he  rose  from  his  knees, 
he  walked  away  from  the  house  with  a  step  which  had  resolu- 
tion and  hope  in  it.  In  his  despair  and  disappointment  he  had 
tried  the  prodigal's  husks,  and  had  now  come  back,  clothed  and 
in  his  right  mind,  to  the  right  way,  which,  with  the  help  of  God, 
he  would  n  ver  leave  again. 

«•••••• 

That  night  had  passed  strangely  at  Shonnen  Lodge.  Mrs. 
Macleod  was  shut  in  the  dining-room,  Jessie  Mackenzie  keeping 
a  vigil  by  the  kitchen  fire.  She  had  slipped  out  before  mid- 
night, and  unlocked  the  front  door,  so  that  if  the  wanderer 
should  return  he  would  gain  admittance  at  once.  She  was  too 
frightened  to  sleep.  At  five  o'clock  she  began  to  move  about 
and  attend  to  her  work.  More  than  once  she  went  to  the 
dining-room  door,  but  always  came  trembling  back  from  it 
again.  I  do  not  know  what  she  feared.  The  stillness  was  like 
death.  She  felt  that  she  could  not  go  into  that  room  until  it 


NEW  YEAR'S  MORN.  305 

was  daylight  Possibly  her  movements  aroused  her  mistre.*s, 
for,  after  a  time,  to  her  intense  relief,  Jessie  henrd  :i  step  in  the 
dining-room.  Then  the  door  was  opened,  and  Mrs.  Macleod 
came  through  to  the  kitchen.  She  was  like  a  spectre.  Jessie 
almost  screamed  at  sight  of  her.  Her  hair  was  quite  white,  and 
her  face  pale  as  that  of  the  dead. 

'  There  has  been  no  word,  I  suppose,  Jessie  ? '  she  said,  in  a 
cold,  passionless  voice.  . 

*  No,  ma'am.     Oh,   how  cold    you  look  !      Come   and    warm 
yourself  at  the  fire ;  I  kept  it  in  all  night.' 

'You  should  have  been  in  your  bed,'  said  Mrs.  Macleod 
quietly;  but  she  obeyed  the  kind  request,  and  stood  by  the  fire 
a  moment,  wanning  her  chilled,  blue  fingers  at  the  cheerful 
glow.  '  It  is  after  five,  I  see.  You  can  light  the  dining-room 
fire ;  I  think  it  has  gone  out.  I  shall  go  upstairs  and  lie  down 
for  a  little.' 

Her  voice  sounded  low  and  somewhat  broken  in  its  tone. 
The  hopelessness  of  it  struck  Jessie,  though  she  was  not  a  close 
observer.  Her  kind  heart  was  instantly  touched. 

'  Sit  down  here,  ma'am,  or  I  make  ye  a  cup  of  tea,  and  when 
ye  are  drinking  it  I'll  make  a  fire  in  your  room  and  put  the 
bottle  in  the  bed.  See,  the  kettle's  boilinV 

*  You  are  a  good  girl,  Jessie.     Very  well,  I  will  sit  down. 
Yes,  I  am  very  cold,'  said  Ellen  Macleod,  shivering  from  head 
to  foot.       Jessie   was  seriously  alarmed.      She   wished   it  was 
daylight.     The   things  that  were  happening  at  Shonnen  were 
too  much  for  her  to  cope  with  alone.    But  whom  could  she  send 
for?      Her  mistress  had  no  friends.     Jessie  was  very  active. 
In  an  incredibly  short  time  she  had  a  nice  cup  of  tea  for  her 
mistress,  who  took  it  gratefully,  and  sipped  it  with   evident 
relish.     But  her  face  had  still  that  worn  look ;  her  eyes  were 
dry  and  glittering.     She  was  thinking  of  her  boy,  lying  among 
the  snow-drifts — dead,  and  she  had  driven  him  to  it  I     Poor, 
proud,  breaking  heart !  its  punishment  was  very  great.     Jessie 
Mackenzie   was  up  in  the  bedroom,   busying  herself  for  the 
comfort  of  her  distressed  mistress,  when  the  outer  door  was 
opened,  and  some  one  came  in, — some  one  with  a  firm,  steady, 
manly  step.     The  foot  sought  the  dining-room,  and  then  came 


306  SHEILA. 

striding  into  the  kitchen.  Ellen  Macleod  let  her  tea-cup  fall 
down  on  the  stone  floor,  but  sat  perfectly  still.  Then  the 
figure  approached  her,  and  knelt  down  by  her  side  on  the  floor, 
and  an  arm  was  thrown  about  her  where  she  sat,  and  a  voice 
filled  her  ears — her  own  boy's  familiar  voice,  though  broken 
and  trembling  in  its  tone. 

'  Mother  I '  it  said,  '  mother,  forgive  me  I  I  believe  God 
has.' 

But  there  was  no  answer.  Then,  looking  up,  he  saw  the 
white  hair,  the  haggard,  pain-lined  face,  the  agony-dimmed 
eyes,  and  knew  what  he  had  done. 

'  Mother,  mother  !  speak  to  me !  I  am  your  son.  Speak  to 
me,  and  forgive  me !  *  he  pleaded.  Then  he  looked  at  her  and 
wondered,  for  her  lips  parted,  and  the  smile  on  her  face  was  to 
him  a  glimpse  of  heaven.  She  laid  her  hand  on  his  brow  ;  she 
passed  it  round  his  neck,  and  bent  her  own  cheek  until  it 
rested  on  his  bright  hair.  And  so  mother  and  son  in  name 
became  mother  and  son  in  heart.  God  had  spoken,  and  not  in 
vain,  to  Ellen  Macleod, 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 


SIGNS   OF   EVIL. 

Canst  tliou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseased, 
Raze  out  the  written  troubles  of  tho  brain? 

Hamlet, 

T' twelve  o'clock  on  the  last  night  of  the  year,  old 
Janet  Menzies  died  in  her  cottage  at  Achnaf'auld. 
The  end  was  not  unexpected,  for  she  had  been 
rapidly  sinking  since  the  winter.  So  Malcolm  and 
Katie  were  left  quite  alone.  There  had  not  been  such  perfect 
confidence  and  affection  between  them  for  some  time;  not, 
indeed,  since  the  night  Angus  M'Bean  had  walked  home  with 
Katie  from  Shian.  Malcolm's  jealous  suspicion,  being  once 
roused,  slept  no  more.  He  watched  Katie  perpetually  until 
the  factor's  son  went  back  to  college ;  but  he  took  no  thought 
that  while  he  was  busy  on  the  croft,  Katie  might  be  reading,  ay, 
and  writing  love-letters  too. 

The  Hogmanay  storm  had  rendered  the  roads  impassable, 
and  it  became  a  question  how  old  Janet's  burying  was  to  take 
place  at  Shian.  Both  the  roads  beyond  Achnafauld  were  level 
with  the  dykes,  and  the  snow  was  so  soft  and  '  pouthery '  that 
it  was  impossible  to  walk  on  it  without  sinking.  It  was 
decided  at  length  to  carry  her  over  the  frozen  loch,  and  then 

cut  a  way  through  the  drift  as  well  as  possible  up  to  the  grave- 
jo? 


jo8  SHEILA. 

yard.  Most  of  the  Fauld  folks  buried  at  Shian,  though  the 
churchyard  at  Amulree  was  nearer,  and  had  a  better  road  to  it. 
Old  Janet  had  insisted  at  the  last  that,  whatever  the  state  of 
the  roads,  they  should  bury  her  beside  her  lather  and  mother 
in  Shian. 

'  If  ye  tak'  me  to  Amulree,'  she  had  said,  shaking  her  skinny 
forefinger  at  the  minister  and  at  Malcolm  as  they  stood  by  her 
bed  the  morning  before  she  died,  'I'll  no'  lie.  My  licht  '11 
burn  in  the  kirkyaird  or  ye  lift  me.'  It  was  firmly  believed  in 
the  Glen  that  when  the  deceased  had  died  with  an  uneasy 
conscience,  or  if  the  relatives  had  done  anything  to  thwart  the 
last  wishes,  the  corpse  candles  burned  .in  the  grave,  a  sure 
sign  that  the  spirit  was  haunting  the  place  in  a  fever  of  unrest. 
So,  at  all  hazards,  Janet  must  be  taken  to  Shian  on  the  day  of 
the  funeral.  Sheila  had  her  pony  saddled,  and  managed  to 
ride  through  the  drift  to  the  Fauld.  Since  she  had  entered 
into  possession  at  Dalmore,  she  had  taken  a  part  in  all  the  joys 
and  sorrows  of  her  people,  and  she  felt  that  Katie  would  be 
very  desolate  after  they  all  left  the  house.  She  arrived  in  time 
for  the  service,  and  she  was  greatly  impressed  thereby.  It  was 
short  and  simple,  yet  very  solemn.  Mr.  Macfarlane's  earnest 
words  sank  into  her  heart.  When  it  was  all  over,  six  stalwart 
men  formed  a  sort  of  litter  with  their  arms,  and  then  bore  the 
coffin  out  by  the  door.  Blind  Rob  was  ready  with  his  pipes, 
for  he  played  a  pibroch  for  all  his  neighbours  at  the  buryings, 
and  so  the  melancholy  train  went  down  the  path,  which  had 
been  swept  clear  to  the  loch.  Sheila  went  out  to  the  back  of 
the  house,  and  watched  the  strange  procession  winding  its  way 
across  the  whitened  landscape,  all  the  trappings  of  woe  seeming 
darker  and  more  striking  in  contrast  with  the  spotless  purity  of 
the  snow.  The  sky  was  leaden-hued,  and  seemed  to  hang  low 
over  the  castle,  the  air  was  soundless  and  heavy,  and  Rob's 
pibroch  seemed  to  fill  the  Glen  with  its  mournful  wailing. 
Altogether,  it  was  an  impressive  sight,  and  one  which  Sheila 
would  not  readily  forget.  When  she  went  back  to  the  house, 
Katie  was  crying  by  the  fire.  As  she  looked  at  her,  Sheila 
could  not  but  think  how  bonnie  and  sweet  she  looked  in  her 
black  frock,  which  seemed  to  set  off  the  fair  Avhiteness  of  her  face. 


SIGNS  OF  EVIL.  309 

'Don't  cry,  Katie.  Aunt  Janet  was  an  old,  old  woman,  you 
know,  and  she  was  quite  ready  to  go.  Let  us  think  rather 
that  she  is  free  from  all  her  pain  now,'  said  Sheila  softly ;  but, 
before  Katie  had  time  to  answer,  the  door  was  softly  opened, 
and  young  Angus  M'Bean  looked  in. 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Murray  Macdonald,'  he  said 
shamefacedly.  '  I  thought  Katie  would  be  alone,  or  I  would 
not  have  come.' 

'Come  in,  come  in.  I  am  just  going,'  said  Sheila,  with  a 
slight  smile.  'Katie,  are  you  not  going  to  speak  to  Mr. 
M'Bean?' 

Katie's  face  was  as  red  as  the  peat  glow,  but  Sheila  saw  that 
her  eyes  brightened.  Involuntarily  she  looked  at  Angus 
M'Bean.  She  wondered  just  then  what  his  evident  love  for 
Katie  might  mean.  She  could  almost  have  asked  him  there 
and  then.  Had  she  been  ten  years  older  she  certainly  would 
have  asked  him.  But  she  was  fain  to  think  the  best  of  him. 
And  it  was  a  good  sign  that  he  did  not  seem  put  out  at  rinding 
her  in  the  cottage.  So  she  bade  them  both  good-bye,  and  rode 
away,  leaving  Angus  to  comfort  Katie  in  his  own  way. 

'  Ye'll  need  to  go  away  before  Malcolm  comes  home,'  said 
Katie,  after  they  had  talked  of  a  gre.-t  many  things  very 
interesting  to  themselves,  but  not  of  special  import  to  us. 

•No,  Katie;  I'm  going  to  wait  till  Malcolm  comes  back. 
Miss  Murray  Macdonald  saw  me  here,  and  all  the  neighbours 
know  I  am  in,  and  I'm  not  going  to  run  away  from  him,'  said 
Angus  firmly. 

'  He'll  be  awfu'  angry,'  said  Katie  nervously.  '  He  said 
once  that  if  he  saw  me  speaking  to  you  again,  he'd  kill  us 
baith.' 

'  Let  him  try  it,'  said  Angus  lightly.  *  Katie,  I  can't  bear 
to  go  back  to  Edinburgh  and  leave  you  with  Malcolm.  He'll 
not  be  good  to  you.' 

'  Oh,  he's  weel  enough  when  he  disna  ken  nor  hear  onything 
aboot  you,'  said  Katie,  with  a  sigh  ;  for,  indeed,  her  heart  did  fail 
her  a  little  at  the  prospect  of  her  life  alone  in  the  house  with 
Malcolm.  He  was  so  dreadfully  changed. 

'  How  dour  he  is,  Katie  1     He  keeps  up  a  grudge  for  ever,' 


3io  SHEILA. 

said  Angus  presently.  '  I  told  him  once  that  I  wished  I  had 
never  tormented  or  told  tales  on  him  when  we  were  all  at  Peter 
Crerar's  school,  and  asked  him  to  let  bygones  be  bygones,  but 
he  just  glowered  at  me,  and  said  he  would  ca'  me  into  the  loch. 
I  told  him  he  was  too  ready  speaking  about  the  loch,  and  lifting 
stones  and  graips  to  folk,  and,  faith,  he  got  into  such  a  terrible 
passion  that  I  was  glad  to  get  out  of  the  road.  We'll  need  to 
marry  without  his  consent,  Katie.' 

'  Ay,  an'  gang  faur,  faur  awa',  if  we  ever  dae,'  said  Katie,  in 
a  low  voice,  for  a  constant  dread  was  upon  her.  Although 
Angus  M'Bean  had  really  tried  to  make  manly  amends  for  his 
past  persecution,  Malcolm  would  receive  none  of  his  advances. 
He  seemed  to  hate  the  whole  household  at  Auchloy  with  a 
mortal  hatred.  He  even  seemed  to  be  soured,  too,  against  his 
very  neighbours  in  the  Fauld.  The  only  person  who  could  call 
forth  the  kindly  impulses  of  his  heart  was  Sheila.  It  is  not  too 
much  to  say  that  he  worshipper1  her  with  a  dumb,  faithful 
worship,  something  like  the  blind,  unquestioning  attachment  of  a 
dog  to  its  master.  It  was  grey  dark  when  the  mourners 
returned  from  the  funeral,  and  when  Malcolm  came  striding 
into  the  house, — a  strange-looking  figure  in  his  ill-fitting  black 
clothes, — he  could  not  at  first  distinguish  who  it  was  sitting 
opposite  Katie  at  the  fireside. 

'  It's  me,  Malcolm,'  said  Angus  presently ;  for  he  wished  to 
assert  a  kind  of  right  to  Katie  before  her  brother,  in  order  that 
the  future  might  be  easier  for  her. 

'Oh,  it's  you,  is't?'  said  Malcolm  quietly  enough ;  but  Katie, 
who  could  read  every  expression  on  his  face,  saw  his  nostrils 
dilate  and  the.  veins  rise  on  his  brow,  as  they  had  done  of  late 
on  the  smallest  provocation,  thus  indicating  that  his  nervous 
system  was  too  easily  excited.  '  Well,  if  it's  you,  there's  the 
door.' 

*  Tuts,  man  I  don't  be  so  snuffy.  Let  me  sit  and  crack  a  little ; 
I'm  going  away  the  day  after  to-morrow,'  said  Angus,  in  the 
same  hearty  tone. 

Malcolm  set  the  door  wide  to  the  wall,  and  then,  with  one 
swing  of  his  powerful  right  arm,  he  swooped  down  upon  the 
factor's  sen,  and  whisked  him  out  of  the  place,  locking  the  door 


SIGNS  OF  EVIL.  311 

behind  him.  Then  he  turned  to  Katie  with  blazing  eyes,  and 
said  sullenly,  'If  ye  say  a  word,  or  if  I  see  or  hear  o'  ye 
speakin'  to  that  deevil  again,  I'll  turn  ye  oot  efter  him.  The 
hoose's  mine  noo,  mind  that  1  * 

Katie  began  to  cry  again,  and  crouched  by  the  ingle-neuk  in 
perfect  misery. 

Finding  himself  thus  summarily  ejected  from  the  house, 
Angus  M'Bean  stood  for  a  moment  undecided  what  to  do.  It 
was  fearful  to  leave  Katie  there  with  that  madman,  for  such 
Angus  held  him  to  be,  and  yet  he  was  very  powerless.  He 
must  go  away  in  the  meantime,  but  of  one  thing  he  was  certain, 
that  he  could  not  and  would  not  leave  Katie  at  Malcolm's 
mercy  very  long.  He  walked  slowly  along  a  beaten  footpath 
to  Auchloy,  so  slowly  that  it  was  pitch  dark  when  he  got  home. 
His  sisters  were  spending  the  New  Year  at  Crieff,  and  his 
father  and  mother  were  having  an  early  tea  in  the  dining-room 
when  he  went  in.  The  factor's  brow  was  as  black  as  thunder ; 
his  son  saw  at  once  that  there  was  something  seriously  disturb- 
ing him. 

*  Got  your  courting  done,  eh  ? '  he  asked,  with  a  bitter  sneer, 
as  Angus  drew  in  his  chair  to  the  table,  and  asked  his  mother 
for  a  cup  of  tea. 

'Maybe,  and  maybe  no';  that's  my  business,'  he  answered 
sharply  enough,  for  his  father's  tone  irritated  him.  He  was 
vexed  and  perplexed,  at  any  rate,  and  did  not  feel  equal  to  any 
more  censure  of  his  actions.  Malcolm's  summary  treatment 
rankled  in  his  mind. 

'It's  a  queer  time  to  court  just  after  the  coffin's  carried  out 
of  the  house,'  continued  the  factor  sourly.  'I  wonder  you 
didna  think  shame,  if  she  didna.  Te  might  have  let  the  auld 
wife  be  cauld  in  her  grave  before  ye  began.' 

'Any  word  from  the  lassies  to-day,  mother?'  asked  Angus, 
turning  his  back  not  very  dutifully  on  his  father ;  whereupon 
that  worthy's  anger  got  the  better  of  his  judgment. 

'  Had  I  kent  ye  were  in  the  hoose  wi'  the  lassie  when  I  gaed 
by,  I  wad  hae  come  in,  and  laid  my  whip  aboot  yer  lugs,  my 
man  I '  he  said  loudly.  '  And  Miss  Murray  Macdonald  saw  ye 
too,  that  was  more.' 


3i»  SHEILA. 

'  She  was  in  when  I  was  in,'  said  Angus  dryly.  '  So  ye 
haven't  got  the  news  quite  correctly.' 

'  Weel,  whether  or  no',  I  want  to  know  what  ye  mean.  Are 
ye  courtin'  Miss  Murray  Macdonald  or  Katie  Menzies?  for  it 
canna  be  them  baith.' 

'Then  it's  not  Miss  Murray  Macdonald,'  said  Angu? 
doggedly,  determined  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  his  mind 
being  made  up  to  marry  Katie. 

'Then  is't  Katie  Menzies?1 

'  Yes.' 

'  An'  are  ye  going  to  marry  her?' 

'  Yes.' 

'After  a'  I've  done  for  ye?  D'ye  hear  that,  Mrs.  M'Bean? 
Your  braw  son's  gaun  to  marry  Katie  Menzies — crazy  Malcolm's 
sister.' 

Mrs.  M'Bean  never  spoke,  but  poured  out  another  cup  of  tea 
to  steady  her  nerves.  But  she  cast  a  look  of  sympathy  upon 
her  son,  which  let  him  see  plainly  what  her  opinion  was.  The 
factor  was  too  angry  to  notice  it.  He  was  frightfully  dis- 
appointed. He  had  built  up  a  fine  castle  for  his  one  son,  and 
here  it  had  fallen  about  his  ears. 

'Angus  M'Bean,  are  ye  in  your  right  mind?  That's  what  I 
want  to  ken.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  mad  Menzies  hae  made 
ye  aboot  as  daft  as  they  are.' 

Angus  smiled.  He  did  not  stand  in  awe  of  his  father,  and,  I 
fear,  had  not  that  respect  for  him  with  which  a  wise  father 
inspires  his  son. 

'  Maybe,'  he  said  carelessly.  *  Mad  or  not  mad,  Til  marry 
nobody  but  Katie  Menzies,  do  or  say  what  you  like.' 

The  factor  clenched  his  hand,  and  brought  it  down  on  the 
table  with  a  thump,  which  set  the  tea-cups  rattling  against  each 
other,  and  knocked  over  the  milk  jug  into  the  jelly  glass. 

'  If  ye  marry  her,  I'll  disinherit  ye  1  D'ye  hear  me  ?  I'll 
disinherit  ye,  Angus  M'Bean!' 

'  I  can't  help  that.     I  can  work  for  myself.' 

'  Hear  him  I  after  all  Fve  spent  on  him  I '  cried  the  factor, 
as  if  adjuring  a  listening  audience.  '  Ye  owe  me  hunders  o 
pounds !  Hunders,  I  say,  but  hundrrs  '11  no' 


SIGAS  OF  EVIL.  313 

'  Well,  if  you  look  at  it  in  that  way,  father,  you  can  make 
out  a  bill,  and  I'll  look  upon  it  as  a  debt,'  said  young  Angus 
quietly.  '  But  you've  only  educated  me,  and  I  thought  it  was 
a  father's  duty  to  give  his  bairns  the  best  education  in  his 
power.' 

'  Had  I  but  kent  that  ye  wad  make  sic  a  ruin  o'  yer  life, 
1  wad  hae  shippit  ye  awa'  to  Canada  wi'  the  cottars ! '  cried  the 
factor.  '  Laddie,  ye  had  a  splendid  future  before  ye,  an  estate 
and  a  grand  wife  lyin'  to  your  very  haund,  an  ye  hae  thrown 
it  away ;  but  a  judgment  will  come  upon  ye  for  it,  I  hope  and 
pray.' 

'  You  speak  very  surely,  father.  I  am  as  certain  as  I  am 
sitting  here,  that  though  I  were  to  court  Miss  Murray  Mucdonald 
for  a  thousand  years  she  would  never  marry  me.  She  thinks 
herself  far  better  than  me ;  besides,  I  would  rather  work  for 
my  wife  than  take  everything  from  her.' 

•Hear  till  him!  He's  speakin'  oot  o'  a  book  noo,'  said  the 
factor  sarcastically.  '  Mrs.  M'Bean,  can  you  no'  speak  a  word 
to  put  this  rascal  by  his  folly  ? ' 

Tm  glad  he's  that  sensible,  Angus,'  was  his  spouse's 
unexpected  reply.  *  And  as  for  Katie  Menzies,  she's  a  bonnie, 
sweet  lassie;  ye  micht  hae  dune  waur,  far  waur,  Angus,  my 
man.  And  ye  hae  baith  my  blessin',  whatever  yer  faither  may 
say.  There's  faur  owre  muckle  tryin'  to  be  big  an'  grand  noo. 
Puir  folk's  faur  the  happiest.  For  my  pairt,  I  hae  never  kent 
muckle  ease  o'  mind  sin'  I  cam'  doon  the  Glen  to  Auchloy.  So 
take  ye  heart,  my  man,  an'  work  wi'  yer  haunds  for  Katie,  an' 
the  Lord  wull  bless  ye  baith.' 

It  was  a  long  speech  for  Mrs.  M'Bean,  and  had  her  feelings 
not  been  wrought  up  to  a  certain  pitch,  she  would  not  have 
dared  to  utter  it  before  her  lord  and  master,  who  ruled  her  in 
all  things.  But  it  was  a  matter  of  conscience  this,  and  Mrs. 
M'Bean  was  a  good  as  well  as  a  kind  woman.  She  was 
profoundly  tYiankful  that  her  son  had  at  length  taken  so  firm 
a  stand  for  the  right.  Many  a  salt  tear  she  had  shed  for  him 
in  his  more  degenerate  days,  before  Katie's  sweet  influence  had 
wrought  in  him  for  good. 

Mr.  M'Bean  cast  upon  his  wife  a  look  of  withering  scorn, 


SHEILA. 


and,  with  his  head  in  the  air,  inarched  out  of  the  room,  as  if  he 
felt  it  impossible  to  breathe  in  the  same  atmosphere  with  them. 
He  never  alluded  to  it  again,  but  there  was  a  marked 
coldness  in  his  demeanour  towards  his  son  during  the  brief 
time  he  remained  at  home.  Angus  went  away  without  a  word  ; 
his  classes  were  taken  out  at  college  for  the  spring  session,  so 
he  might  as  well  take  advantage  of  them.  But  he  determined 
that,  in  addition  to  working  very  hard  at  his  books  in  Edinburgh, 
he  would  keep  a  look-out  for  a  situation  as  under-factor,  and 
that  if  he  were  successful  in  obtaining  his  desire,  he  would 
marry  Katie  without  delay,  and  make  a  home  for  himself  and 
for  her. 


CHAPTER  XXXVL 


HT  WIFE  I 

My  wife's  a  winsome  wee  thing, 
This  sweet  wee  wife  o'  mine. 

ERGUS  MACLEOD  went  back  to  college  the  day 
after  Angus  M'Bean  left  Auchloy.  His  class  fees 
were  paid  up  till  Easter,  and  he  could  not  idle  the 
spring  months  at  home.  It  was  finally  settled  that 
he  and  his  mother  should  sail  for  Quebec  by  the  first  steamer 
which  made  the  voyage  from  Glasgow  after  the  ice  broke  up 
on  the  St.  Lawrence.  Wherever  the  boy  was  would  be  home 
and  paradise  now  for  Ellen  Macleod.  He  warned  her  of 
the  hardships,  but  she  said  she  would  make  them  easier  for 
him. 

Seeing  that  her  heart  was  set  upon  it,  Fergus  said  no 
more.  The  new  mother  he  had  found  was  so  dear  to  him, 
that  he  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  parting  with  her.  It 
had  been  a  strange  experience  for  them  both.  It  almost 
seemed  as  if  they  had  made  a  new  and  delightful  acquaintance 
with  each  other.  His  mother  was  now  Fergus  Macleod's 
sympathizer  and  confidante;  to  her  he  poured  out  all  the 
miserable  experiences  of  those  winter  months  in  Edinburgh, 
told  all  the  idle  dissipating  of  time  and  opportunity,  the 
desecration  of  talent  and  privilege.  And  she  did  not  blame, 


3r6  SHEILA. 

• 

but  only  bade  him  go  on  in  a  new  and  h<  tter  way,  and  take 
courage.  He  had  told  her,  the  night  before  he  left  Shonnen, 
what  had  transpired  at  Dal  more,  and  when  he  spoke  of  Sheila, 
his  mother  knew  by  his  hushed  voice  and  full,  earnest  eye 
what  she  was  to  him.  His  dearest ;  and  she,  his  mother,  must 
henceforth  be  content  to  be  second.  But  even  that,  in  her  new- 
found peace  arid  happiness,  seemed  a  little  thing.  She  knew 
in  her  heart  that  Sheila  was  worthy  the  highest  homage  that 
Fergus  or  any  man  could  give  her.  She  even  admitted  to 
herself  that  Fergus  was  not  worthy  of  her  yet.  The  day  might 
come  when  the  desire  of  her  heart,  which  she  had  long  allowed 
to  embitter  her  life,  would  be  an  accomplished  fact,  and  Fergus 
would  be  Laird  of  Dalmore,  and  if  not,  he  would  fill  some 
other  sphere  as  worthily. 

I  hope  this  change  for  the  better  in  Ellen  Macleod  does 
not  savour  of  the  miraculous  or  the  impossible.  In  this 
history  heretofore,  the  hardest,  most  unwomanly  side  of  her 
character  has  constantly  obtruded  itself;  but  that,  even  in 
these  hard  days,  she  had  had  her  moments  of  remorse,  I 
cannot  doubt.  Many  an  unseeen,  unknown  struggle  must 
have  taken  place  silently  in  her  breast.  But  none  of  these 
had  been  strong  enough  to  break  down  the  barriers  of  her 
prejudice  and  pride.  She  needed  a  sharper  discipline. 

The  fear  of  death  had  been  upon  her  before  her  heart  would 
melt;  but,  once  broken  down,  she  allowed  the  softer  im- 
pulses of  her  nature  to  have  fullest  bent.  She  asked  her 
son's  forgiveness  for  her  long  harshness  towards  him  very 
humbly,  even  with  tears,  andt  having  obtained  it,  alluded  no 
more  to  that  dark  past.  She  sought  rather  to  atone  for 
it  by  making  the  present  sweet,  and  the  future  bright. 
It  was  characteristic  of  the  woman,  and  a  hopeful  sign,  I 
think,  that  her  repentance  was  real.  There  is  no  good,  but 
rather  harm,  to  be  got  in  dwelling  upon  past  evil  of  any 
kind.  Let  it  be  repented  of  sincerely  and  atoned  for,  if 
possible,  then  buried  for  ever.  We  are  not  called  to  abase 
ourselves  perpetually  to  the  memory  of  sins  committed.  Let 
our  solemn  striving  after  good  be  the  earnest  that  we  no  longer 
desire  eviL 


MY  WIFE  I  317 

After  her  boy  went  back  to  Edinburgh,  Ellen  Mncleod  set 
herself  to  make  great  preparations,  in  the  way  of  sewing  and 
knitting,  for  the  future.  Their  intention  was  not  known.  They 
would  keep  their  own  counsel  for  a  while.  The  weekly  letter 
was  now  no  hardship,  but  a  joy,  for  Fergus  to  write.  Sometimes 
two  came  instead  of  one,  and  his  mother  paid  him  back  with 
interest.  In  these  letters  they  spoke  yet  more  freely  and 
unrestrainedly  to  each  other,  and  so  the  separation  was  shorn 
of  half  its  bitterness. 

Having  learned  that  Fergus  was  in  Edinburgh,  Alastair 
sought  him  out  in  his  old  lodgings  one  evening  in  February. 
He  found  him  hard  at  work  among  his  books,  trying  to  make 
up  his  lost  ground. 

'  Hulloa,  old  man  I  turned  a  perfect  model  of  industry,  eh  ? ' 
he  cried,  slapping  his  shoulder  in  his  old  hearty  way.  '  I 
wondered  what  had  become  of  you.  Never  thought  you  had 
taken  to  grinding.' 

'  Time,  don't  you  think  ? '  asked  Fergus,  looking  with  a 
smile  into  Alastair's  frank  face.  It  was  pleasant  to  see  one's 
old  chum,  he  thought,  after  their  long  estrangement. 

'  Are  you  going  to  stay  a  while,  Alastair  ?  Do,  and  I'll 
put  up  my  books.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  a  thousand  things  to  say 
to  you.' 

'  Very  likely,  after  the  way  you're  persistently  kept  out  of 
my  road  lately,'  said  Alastair,  with  a  grin. 

'  Do  you  know,  it's  only  four  weeks  to-day  till  the  classes  are 
up,  and  I  haven't  done  a  stroke  of  work  ?  ' 

'It's  hardly  worth  tackling  to  now.  You  look  as  if  you 
needed  a  holiday  already.  Do  you  stew  here  for  ever  ? 

'  A  good  deal.  Look  at  the  time  I  lost  in  winter.  It  makes 
me  savage  to  think  of  it.  Alastair,  why  didn't  you  tell  me 
what  a  fool  I  was  ? ' 

'  Because  you  might,  and  probably  would,  have  requested  me 
to  mind  my  own  business,'  said  Alastair  serenely.  '  And  I 
knew  you  wouldn't  go  too  far.  It's  not  in  you.' 

1 1  went  far  enough,'  said  Fergus,  with  clouding  brow.  '  Sit 
down,  man.  I  suppose  I  may  tell  you  now  I'm  off  to  Canada 
in  April.' 


3i8  SHEILA. 

'Really?1 

'  Fact.  It's  the  least  I  can  do,  isn't  it  ?  to  go  out  and 
see  the  place  they've  called  after  me.  Fergus  Creek  is  our 
destination.' 

'  Our  destination  1     Who  is  going  with  you  ? ' 

'  My  mother.' 

Alastair  whistled, — not  quite  so  much  with  surprise  at  the 
announcement,  as  at  the  tone  in  which  Fergus  spoke  these 
two  words.  '  Well,  I  wish  you  luck,  old  boy.  I  suppose 
they  are  getting  on  famously  out  there.  Are  you  going  to 
settle?' 

'  Yes ;  Fin  going  to  buy  land  with  the  money  my  uncle  left 
u  e,  and  start  farming.' 

'  All  serene ;  Fll  come  out  and  see  you  when  I'm  through 
with  my  grinding,'  said  Alastair,  with  the  air  of  a  hard-worked 
student.  'Come  on  out  for  a  stroll,  Fergus.  It's  a  lovely 
night.  You  never  saw  a  more  glorious  moon,  and  we  can  talk 
as  well  outside  as  here.' 

'I  don't  mind  if  I  do,'  said  Fergus,  reaching  out  for  his 
boots. 

He  felt  glad,  honestly  glad,  to  see  Alastair.  He  liked  him 
better  than  any  fellow  he  knew.  But  who  did  not  like 
Alastair  ? 

He  had  taken  his  dismissal  from  Sheila  very  philosophically, 
though  it  had  been  a  grievous  disappointment  at  the  time. 
But  Alastair  believed  in  making  the  best  of  everything,  and  so 
kept  himself  and  others  happy. 

They  strolled  out  together  arm  in  arm,  and  turned  along 
Nicolson  Street  towards  Newington.  Fergus  did  the  most  of 
the  talking,  and  did  not  pay  much  attention  to  anything 
passing  round  him,  but  Alastair's  eyes  and  ears  were  always 
open. 

'I  say,  Fergus,  that's  uncommon  like  M'Bean.  It  is  him,' 
he  said  suddenly.  *  And  who's  that  he's  got  with  him?  What 
a  pretty  girl ! ' 

Fergus  looked  up,  and  his  eyes  fell  on  the  sweet  face  of 
Katie  Menzies.  She  was  walking  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street,  and  her  hand  was  through  Angus  M'Bean's  arm,  and 


MY  WIFE/  319 

her  face  lifted  confidingly  to  his.  The  sight  made  the  hot, 
indignant  blood  surge  to  Fergus  Macleod's  face,  and  tingle  even 
to  his  very  finger  tips. 

'  I  know  who  it  is.  A  girl  from  the  Fauld.  She's  here  for 
no  good.  But  I'll  be  even  with  him.  I'll  make  him  give  an 
account  of  himself,  and  I'll  take  her  home,  if  she'll  go.' 

'  You  won't  go  one  step  just  now,'  said  Alastair,  gripping  him 
firm  and  fast  by  the  arm.  '  You  never  want  to  miss  a  chance 
of  distinguishing  yourself,  if  it's  only  in  a  street  brawL  Do  you 
want  to  be  the  centre  of  a  crowd  immediately,  and  have  a 
bobby  marching  you  off  to  the  lock-up  ?  You've  no  business  to 
interfere  with  M'Bean,  or  the  lassie  either.' 

'  Yes,  I  have,'  said  Fergus  fiercely.  '  She's  one  of  my  folk, 
and  she's  an  orphan,  and  he  had  no  right,  the  villain  I  to  entice 
her  away.  I  will  go,  Alastair.  Let  go  my  arm.' 

'  Wait  a  minute.  Now  she's  gone  into  a  shop.  Let's  go  over 
and  pretend  to  meet  M'Bean  accidentally,  and  see  how  he'll  look. 
Will  you  promise  first  not  to  take  him  by  the  throat,  for  you 
look  fit  enough,  or  even  to  speak,  till  I  give  you  leave  ?  We'll 
manage  it  all  beautifully,  and  circumvent  him  too,  if  you  only 
keep  down  your  wild  Macdonald  temper.  It'll  be  the  undoing 
of  you  some  day,  Fergus,  my  boy.' 

Fergus  held  his  peace,  though  his  eyes  were  suspiciously 
brilliant-looking.  So,  keeping  him  tightly  by  the  arm,  Alastair 
marched  him  across  the  street.  Katie  was  in  a  provision  store, 
and  Angus  was  standing  at  the  window  surveying  the  tempting 
array  of  ham,  butter,  eggs,  and  cheese  displayed  there.  He  did 
not  see  the  two  young  men  pass  him,  nor  hear  Alastair's 
smothered  laughter.  It  was  so  irresistibly  funny  to  him  to  see 
the  dandified  Angus  M'Bean  standing  apparently  engrossed  at  a 
grocer's  window.  After  going  a  few  yards  they  turned  again, 
and  stopped  beside  the  window  too ;  then  Angus  saw  them,  but 
didn't  seem  greatly  put  out,  or  even  apprehensive  of  dis- 
covery. 

*  Are  you  making  a  study  of  the  prices,  in  order  to  come  down 
with  a  fell  swoop  on  an  unprincipled  landlady  ? '  asked  Alastair, 
for  the  sake  of  keeping  Fergus  quiet.  He  was  himself  rather 
mystified  by  M'Bean's  perfect  self-possession,  for  at  any  moment 


320  SHEILA. 

Katie  might  come  out  of  the  shop.  She  did  come  presently, 
with  her  hands  laden  with  sundry  small  packages,  of  which 
Angus  immediately  relieved  her.  There  was  a  pleasant,  proud 
smile  on  his  face,  which  gave  Katie  confidence,  though  at  sight 
of  the  two  gentlemen  she  had  grown  very  red. 

'  Katie,  I  need  not  introduce  you  to  Mr.  Fergus  Macleod,'  said 
Angus,  rather  enjoying  the  thing.  '  This  is  Mr.  Alastair  Murray 
of  Murrayshaugh — my  wife.' 

The  two  last  words  were  uttered  in  a  tone  which  put  an  end 
to  all  suspicion.  Fergus  was  covered  with  confusion.  Alastair 
was  hard  put  to  it  to  restrain  his  mirth  at  the  sudden  quench- 
ing of  Fergus's  indignation.  But  he  did  manage  to  utter  a 
few  words  of  congratulation,  and  to  say  that  he  would  be 
very  happy  to  call  upon  Mrs.  M'Bean  at  No.  28  Rankeillor 
Street 

As  for  Fergus,  he  tried  to  mutter  something,  but  was  glad  when 
Alastair  hurried  him  away.  That  incident  put  an  end  to  their 
confidential  talk  for  the  night.  Fergus  could  think  and  speak 
of  nothing  but  the  marriage  of  Puddin'  and  Katie.  When  had 
it  taken  place,  and  where?  why  had  he  never  heard  of  it? 
and  a  thousand  other  questions  as  unanswerable ;  until  Alastair, 
tired  of  the  theme,  told  him  he  was  a  perfect  nuisance,  and  took 
the  'bus  away  home. 

When  Fergus  went  back  to  his  lodgings,  he  found  a  letter 
from  his  mother,  in  which  she  mentioned  that  great  consterna- 
tion was  in  Achnafauld  over  Katie  Menzies'  disappearance,  and 
that  consternation  had  given  place  that  day  to  the  utmost  surprise, 
because  her  marriage  with  young  Angus  M'Bean  was  announced 
in  the  Courant  of  Tuesday.  She  added  that  they  were  saying 
Malcolm's  usage  had  compelled  Katie  to  run  away  from  him, 
and  that  they  were  saying,  too,  that  Malcolm  had  gone  clean 
out  of  his  mind  over  it.  Fergus  was  so  excited  over  all  this 
news,  that,  though  it  was  nearly  nine  o'clock,  he  put  on  his  cap 
and  ran  away  round  to  No.  28  Rankeillor  Street.  It  was 
M'Bean's  old  lodgings;  for,  as  he  was  in  negotiations  for 
a  situation  as  under-factor  in  Roxburghshire,  it  would  not  have 
been  wise  to  take  a  house  in  Edinburgh.  Fergus  asked  for 
Mrs.  M'Bean,  and  was  instantly  shown  into  the  sitting-room, 


MY  WIFE/  321 

where  the  young  couple  were  having  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  l>it 
of  bread  and  cheese  for  supper. 

Katie,  all  blushes  and  smiles,  jumped  up  at  sight  of  Mr.  Fergus, 
who  held  out  his  hand,  and  said  heartily, — 

'  I  just  carne  round  to  congratulate  you,  Mrs.  M'Bean.  I  was 
stunned  in  the  street,  and  hadn't  a  word  to  say.  I  beg  your 
pardon,  Angus,  and  I  wish  you  joy.' 

'  Not  at  all ;  delighted  to  see  you,  aren't  we,  Katie  ? '  said 
Angus,  a  trifle  confusedly.  '  Will  you  take  a  cup  of  coffee? 
Ring  for  a  cup  and  plate,  Katie.  Sit  down,  Fergus.' 

So  Fergus  sat  down  at  the  table  with  them,  and  how  proud  and 
happy  was  the  bonnie  young  wife  to  have  Mr.  Fergus  sitting  at 
her  own  table.  Never  had  she  looked  so  sweet,  so  graceful, 
so  happy.  Happiness  is  a  great  beautifier,  and  there  was  no 
need  to  ask  if  Katie  was  happy.  Fergus  felt  more  and  more 
ashamed  of  himself  for  his  uncharitable  suspicions  about  her 
husband. 

4  I'm  only  vexed  at  running  away  as  I  did  from  Malcolm,'  said 
Katie,  with  a  tremble  of  the  lip,  after  they  had  spoken  for  a 
little  about  it.  '  But  if  he  had  known,  I  believe  he  would  have 
killed  me,  Mr.  Fergus.  I  dinna  ken  what's  to  become  of  poor 
Malky.  I  fear  he'll  need  to  go  to  Murthly  at  the  end.  He's 
no'  safe.' 

'  You  can't  vex  yourself  about  him,  Katie,  for  I'm  sure  you 
did  more  than  your  duty  to  him,'  said  Fergus  kindly.  '  And 
are  you  going  back  to  spend  Easter  at  Auchloy  ?  ' 

'  O  no ;  we're  disinherited,'  said  Angus,  with  a  laugh,  'by 
everybody  but  my  mother.  She  sent  Katie  her  blessing  and  a 
silk  dress.  We're  done  with  Auchloy.' 

He  spoke  lightly;  and,  indeed,  he  did  not  feel  the  rupture 
with  the  others  as  long  as  he  had  his  mother's  blessing.  But 
Fergus  saw  Katie's  sweet  face  shadow  a  little.  Now  that  she 
was  his  wife  beyond  recall,  she  feared  he  had  sacrificed  too 
much  for  her.  But  he  would  not  let  her  think  it,  much  less 
say  it.  A  new  man,  indeed,  in  every  respect  was  Puddin' 
M'Bean. 

They  confided  their  hopes  and  plans  to  Fergus,  and  it  was 
near  midnight  when  he  went  back  to  bis  lodgings.  They 

21 


32*  SHEILA. 

seemed  dreary  and  cold.  The  sight  of  Angus  and  his  bonnie 
wife  had  reminded  him  of  what  was  so  far  out  of  his  reach. 
Even  if  Sheila  cared  for  him,  and  remained  true,  many  years 
must  pass  before  he  could  hope  even  to  stand  as  an  equal  in  her 

presence. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIL 


A    DARK    MGUT. 

I  suffered  hate,  slow  hate, 
That  bides  its  time. 

J.  B.  SELKIRK. 

ERGUS  MACLEOD  went  home  as  usual  upon  the 
thirty-first  of  March.  Their  steamer,  the  BosphoruSj 
was  to  sail  from  Glasgow  on  the  twenty-second  of 
April.  He  found  that  his  mother  had  got  the 
preparations  well  forward  for  their  departure,  and  that  she  was 
in  the  best  of  health  and  spirits.  The  intervening  time  passed 
rapidly,  for  there  was  a  great  deal  still  to  do;  and  their  last 
day  at  Shonnen,  in  the  old  Glen,  came  before  they  knew  where 
they  were.  The  best  of  the  things  at  Shonnen  were  going 
with  them;  for  though  the  transit  of  their  goods  would  be 
more  expensive  than  their  own  passages,  money  would  be  saved 
at  the  other  end.  There  were  no  upholsterers'  warehouses  as 
yet  in  the  township  at  Fergus  Creek. 

'  I'm  going  over  to  the  Fauld,  mother,  to  say  good-bye,  and 
get  all  their  last  messages  for  the  folks  over  the  sea,'  said 
Fergus,  after  their  early  tea.  '  But  I  shall  not  be  late.' 

1  Don't  hurry ;  I  am  going  out  also,  Fergus,  up  to  Dalmore.' 
Fergus  gave  a  quick  start,  and  looked  at  his  mother  with 
something  of  apprehension  in  his  eye.     She  smiled  a  little,  and 
shook  her  head. 


324  SHEILA. 

'  I  have  something  to  say  to  Sheila,  Fergus, — something 
which  it  would  not  grieve  you  very  much  to  hear.  Can  I  take 
her  any  message  from  you  ? ' 

'None,  except  that  I  have  not  forgotten  the  last  night  of  the 
year  and  my  vow,'  said  Fergus,  a  little  huskily ;  and,  going  up 
to  his  mother,  he  kissed  her,  without  saying  another  word. 

They  understood  each  other;  but  if  Fergus,  as  he  strolled 
along  to  the  Fauld,  thought  more  of  the  house  on  the  hill  than 
the  low-lying  clachan  whither  he  was  bound,  it  need  not  be 
wondered  at.  He  went  by  Kinloch,  looked  in  for  a  word  with 
the  few  who  still  remained  there,  and  then  crossed  the  bridge, 
and  up  by  Malcolm  Menzies'  croft  to  Janet's  cottage.  He  had 
never  yet  seen  Malcolm  since  he  came  home.  He  had  had  a 
great  deal  of  journeying  to  and  from  Glasgow,  as  well  as  to 
Crieff  and  Dunkeld,  in  connection  with  their  voyage ;  but  though 
he  had  been  several  times  in  the  Fauld,  as  I  said,  he  had  never 
seen  Malcolm.  He  had  heard  of  him,  however, — dark  hints 
from  most  of  the  folk,  and  even  Rob  Macnaughton  could  only 
shake  his  head  when  his  name  was  mentioned.  Rob  had 
sustained  a  severe  disappointment  in  the  ill  turning  out  of 
Malcolm,  who,  beyond  a  doubt,  had  the  heaven-born  gift  of 
song,  though  he  had  never  given  it  voice.  It  was  not  his 
blame,  poor  lad !  if  nature  had  given  him  the  larger  gift,  she 
had  taken  from  him  something  of  infinitely  greater  value.  There 
was  no  doubt  that  Malcolm  Meuzies  lacked  in  judgment,  and  that 
the  folk  were  not  far  wrong  when  they  called  him  '  daft.'  No 
human  being  had  heard  him  speak  Katie's  name  since  she  went 
away ;  and  one  man  who  mentioned  it  one  day  suddenly  found 
himself  levelled  to  the  ground.  The  melancholy,  miserable 
man  dwelt  alone  in  the  cottage  which  Katie's  bonnie  presence 
had  been  wont  to  brighten,  and  no  foot  but  his  own  was  ever 
allowed  to  step  across  it.  How  he  lived  they  did  not  know. 
For  days  together  there  would  be  no  smoke  at  his  '  lum-heid,' 
and  he  had  sold  all  his  cows.  A  crust  of  bread  and  a  drink  of 
water  was  his  only  food,  and  in  a  few  weeks'  time  he  was 
reduced  to  a  skeleton.  Rob  Macnaughton  had  tried  to  take  him 
in  hand, — had  pointed  out  that  Katie  had  made  a  good  marriage, 
for  which  he,  Malcolm,  should  be  thankful ;  but  the  wild. 


A  DARK  NIGHT.  325 

disordered  brain  seemed  incapable-  of  taking  in  the  fact.  1J<- 
hud  but  one  dt-sire, — though,  with  the  cunning  of  the  insane,  it 
was  never  breathed,  —  and  that  was  to  have  his  revenge  upon 
Angus  M'Bean.  He  was  biding  his  time ;  and,  having  heard 
that  young  Angus  had  come  over  for  a  day  or  two  alone,  to  get 
away  some  of  his  belongings  from  Auchloy,  he  was  constantly 
prowling  about  on  the  watch.  Fergus  found  the  cottage  door 
locked ;  and  though  he  peered  in  at  both  windows,  there  was  no 
sign  of  Malcolm.  He  was,  indeed,  prowling  about  the  birch 
wood  on  the  other  side  of  the  loch,  waiting  for  young  Angus 
M'Bean,  whom  he  had  seen  cross  the  bridge  in  the  afternoon. 
Disappointed  of  Malcolm,  Fergus  leaped  the  burn,  and  lifted  the 
sneck  of  Rob  Macnaughton's  door.  Rob  was  at  his  loom,  Avhich 
went  somewhat  slowly  and  heavily  now,  for  the  stocking-weaver's 
powerful  limbs  were  not  proof  against  the  hand  of  time.  Rob 
had  now  become  a  bent  old  man. 

'  Rob,  come  into  the  kitchen  1 '  cried  Fergus  cheerily.  '  Mind, 
it's  our  last  crack.' 

Rob  got  off  his  stool  as  nimbly  as  his  rheumatic  leg  would 
allow  him,  and  came  hirpling  ben  to  the  kitchen,  with  the  old- 
time  smile  on  his  face. 

'  So,  lad,  ye  are  for  off? ' 

1  Ay,  Rob  ;  to-morrow  Glenquaich  will  know  me  no  more, — at 
least  for  some  years,'  he  added,  and  his  voice  gave  a  quiver. 
It  was  a  wrench  to  leave  the  old  Glen,  and  Achnafauld, — ay,  and 
Crom  Creagh,  which  sheltered  what  was  dearer  to  him  than  life 
itself. 

'  Weel,  weel,  when  ye  come  back,  Fergus  Macleod,  the  grass 
will  be  green  abune  Rob  Macnaughton  in  Shian,  and  the  merle 
maybe  singing  on  his  grave.  Ye  are  a  braw  chield  I  The  Lord 
bless  ye,  an'  bring  ye  back  to  them  that  lo'e  ye,  and  they  are 
mony,  both  here  an'  ower  the  sea.' 

'  More  than  I  deserve,  Rob,'  Fergus  said  soberly.  '  I 
thought  maybe  you'd  have  a  new  song  for  me  to  take  over 
to  Fergus  Creek.  I  doubt  you  are  getting  lazy  in  your  old 
age.' 

'My  singing  days  are  done,  lad.  An'  what's  to  become  o* 
our  young  lady  after  ye  are  away?  Ye  are  but  a  fule,  though 


326  SHEILA. 

I  say  it,  Mr.  Fergus,  to  leave  sic  a  prize  to  be  snnppit  up  b} 
anybody.' 

'I  am  not  worthy,  Rob,'  Fergus  answered,  in  a  low  voice. 

'And  what  for  no'?  Ye  \vadna  like  onybody  but  yoursel'  to 
say  that,  nor  wad  I,'  said  the  stocking-weaver,  who  had  utterly 
refused  to  credit  any  of  the  detrimental  stories  he  had  heard 
about  his  favourite,  and  thought  he  had  no  equal  in  the  wide 
world.  '  Man,  I  think  I'd  rather  be  a  laird  in  Glenquaich  than 
in  America,  though  it  seems  a  guid  land,  if  Donald  Macalpine 
and  Jamie  Stewart  write  what's  true.  Miss  Sheila  would  fain 
have  had  them  back  after  the  thing  was  in  her  hands,  but  they 
seemed  to  think  themsel's  better  whaur  they  are.' 

'  Rob,  do  you  know  whether  she  wrote  to  any  of  them?' 

'  Ay  did  she,  for  she  showed  me  the  letter ;  and  old  though  I 
be,  my  een  were  wet  as  I  read  it.  She  wrote  to  Jamie  Stewart, 
offering  him  Turrich  for  half  naething,  an'  Little  Turrich  for 
young  Rob,  and  the  smiddy  to  Donald  Macalpine ;  but  they 
never  sent  back  a  single  word,  which  made  me  mad,  I  can  tell 
ye,  for  the  credit  o'  the  Glen.' 

*  It  was  certainly  very  ungrateful.  I  shall  ask  them  what 
they  meant,  and  make  them  send  back  a  humble  apology  by  the 
next  mail.  Rob,  I'll  miss  having  your  door  to  run  to  when  the 
spirit  moves  me.' 

'  Ay,  lad ;  and  your  blithesome  face  will  come  no  more  in  at 
my  door.  Ye  hae  been  sunlicht  an*  munelicht  an'  a'  to  me, 
Fergus, — you  an'  Miss  Sheila.' 

'She  will  always  come,' said  Fergus  quickly.  'And  I  can 
think  I  see  her  sitting  here,  and  you  reading  out  of  your  old 
poetry  books.' 

'  Mr.  Fergus,'  said  Rob,  with  a  low,  delightful  laugh, '  she  was 
for  me  printin'  my  sangs  in  the  Gaelic,  and  giein'  them  to  the 
world,  as  she  put  it.  But  I  shakes  my  heid,  and  I  says,  "  When 
I'm  awa',  they'll  be  yours,  my  doo,  to  dae  what  ye  like  wi'."  So 
maybe,  wha  kens  ?  Rob  Macnaughton's  name  '11  live  after  him. 
jist  like  Shakespeare  and  Sir  Walter, — ay,  ay,  jist  like  Shake- 
speare and  Sir  Walter.' 

Fergus  could  not  but  smile  at  the  old  man's  delight.  The 
idea  that  Sheila  had  thought  them  worthy  to  be  put  in  print 


A  DARK  NIGHT.  327 

had  pleased  him,  though  he  would  not  consent  to  its  being  done 
in  his  lifetime. 

'Fergus,  ye  didna  see  Malcolm  Menzies  as  ye  cam'  by?' 
asked  the  old  man,  changing  the  subject,  and  speaking  in  a 
very  anxious  tone. 

*  I  wanted  to,  Rob,  but  his  door  was  locked.' 

Rob  shook  his  head. 

'  I  kenna  what  the  end  will  be.  It'll  be  his  ain  life,  or  some 
other  body's.  Eh,  Fergus,  what  for  did  the  Almichty  gie  the 
puir  lad  one  gift,  an'  tak'  awa'  his  judgment?' 

'  Do  you  really  think  Malcolm  is  mad,  Rob  ? ' 

1  He's  no'  faur  off  it.  He  should  be  shut  up,  Fergus ;  but 
they'll  no'  dae  it  or  there's  mischief  dune.  I  saw  him  awa  ower 
the  brig  at  six  o'clock,  with  a  shearin'-heuk  in  his  hand,  an' 
afore  that  I  saw  the  factor  awa'  to  Kinloch,  or  maybe  farther. 
Young  Angus  is  here,  too.  They  should  tell  him  to  keep  a 
safe  distance  frae  the  Fauld.  How  like  his  faither  he  has  got ! 
Ye  could  hardly  tell  the  ane  frae  the  ither*,  unless  ye  saw  them 
face  to  face.' 

'Angus  M'Bean  has  turned  out  well,'  said  Fergus.  'I  am 
.sorry  about  poor  Malcolm.  He  used  to  be  a  fine  lad,  and  I 
thought  he  would  make  something  better.' 

Rob  shook  his  head. 

'  Do  you  really  think  he  would  do  any  harm  to  anybody, 
Rob?' 

'  Ay  do  I.  I  wadna  trust  him ;  an'  I  hoped  when  I  saw  him 
awa'  ower  the  brig  wi'  the  heuk  that  the  factor  would  gang 
round  by  Garrows,  an'  no'  come  through  the  plan  tin'  after  dark.' 

'  But  it's  young  Angus  he  has  the  grudge  at,  Rob.' 

'  Ay ;  but  when  a  man's  bluid's  up  he  doesna  care  wha  comes 
first.  I  thocht  when  I  saw  him  gang  that  he  had  mista'en  the 
faither  for  the  son ;  but  maybe  I'm  ttl-judgin*  the  laddie.' 

'  I'm  going  over  to  Auchloy  to  see  Angus.  If  his  father  isn't 
home,  I'll  send  him  out  after  him,'  said  Fergus,  rising.  A 
vague  sense  of  uneasiness  was  upon  him.  What  did  Malcolm 
mean  by  going  over  the  brig,  with  a  shearing-hook  in  his  hand, 
at  that  time  of  night? 

'Dae   that,  lad.     There's  a  sense  of  evil  in  the  air  that  I 


328  SHEILA. 

canna  understand.  I  could  hope,  laddie,  that  yer  last  nicht  in 
the  Glen  be  na  shadowed  wi'  a  crime.  My  mind  is  not  at  rest ; 
but  if  the  factor  were  at  Shian,  I  think,  surely,  he  wad  gang 
round  by  Garrows.' 

Rob  had  imparted  to  Fergus  his  own  apprehension,  and  the 
young  man  walked  as  fast  as  he  could  up  to  Auchloy.  The 
night  was  closing  in,  and  a  cloud,  dark,  heavy,  and  ominous, 
came  stealing  up  the  Glen,  and  turned  the  shining  loch  into  a 
black  and  frowning  sea.  A  sudden  wind  rose,  and  swept  up 
the  Glen  with  a  gusty  shriek.  Fergus  looked  across  at  the 
birch  plantation  beyond  the  loch  with  a  curious  sick  feeling  at 
his  heart.  Was  there  a  dark  tragedy  even  now  being  enacted 
there,  and  was  nature  giving  warning  of  it  ?  He  gave  a  loud 
knock  at  the  door  of  Auchloy.  To  his  relief,  Angus  himself 
opened  it 

'  Get  your  hat,  Angus,  and  come  out,'  he  said  quickly.  *  I 
want  to  speak  to  you.  Don't  disturb  the  ladies.' 

Angus  M'Bean  looked  amazed,  the  manner  of  Fergus  was  so 
uneasy  and  strange.  He  snatched  a  cap  from  the  hall  table, 
and  came  out  quickly,  closing  the  door  behind  him. 

'  Is  your  father  in,  Angus  ? '  Fergus  asked. 

'  No,  he  has  gone  to  Shian.  We're  expecting  him,  though, 
shortly.' 

'  Will  he  come  home  by  Garrows  ? ' 

'  No  ;  by  Turrich  and  Kinloch.  He  wants  to  see  Peter  Ross 
at  Turrich,  and  he  would  not  be  in  from  the  fields  until  after 
seren,  at  any  rate.' 

'We'll  go  and  meet  him,  then,  Angus.  I  don't  want  to 
alarm  you,'  said  Fergus,  'but  I  fear  Malcolm  Menzies  means 
mischief  to-night.  Have  you  seen  him  since  you  came  home  ?  ' 

'  No.  What  do  you  mean,  Fergus  ? '  asked  Angus  quickly, 
with  a  disturbed,  startled  look  on  his  face. 

'  Rob  Macnaughton  saw  him  away  over  the  bridge,  and  didn't 
like  the  look  of  him,'  said  Fergus.  *•  He  may  mean  nothing,  but 
it  can  do  us  no  harm  to  go  as  far  as  the  plantation  and  meet 
your  father.' 

Fergus  was  much  excited.  Angus,  though  the  interest 
^ras  more  specially  his,  was  quite  cool.  But  he  was  cast  in  a 


A  DARK  NIGHT.  329 

different  mould  from  Fergus  Macleod.  Bf  sides,  he  did  not  really 
apprehend  any  danger  from  Malcolm  Menzies.  If  his  father 
should  meet  him,  he  thought  they  would  be  equally  matched. 

So,  as  they  walked  from  Auchloy  to  the  Fauld,  and  across  the 
croft  to  the  bridge,  he  talked  all  the  way  about  other  things, 
chiefly  about  the  voyage  Fergus  was  about  to  make.  It  was 
quite  dark  by  the  time  they  reached  the  bridge ;  there  was  no 
moon,  and  the  clouds  were  heavy.  It  was  impossible  to  see 
more  than  a  step  or  two  in  front.  Beyond  the  bridge  the 
lights  of  Kinloch  gleamed  cheerily  through  the  gloom,  and 
somewhat  relieved  the  inky  blackness.  As  they  passed  over 
the  bridge  they  heard  the  sullen  flow  of  the  river,  which  was 
very  deep  just  where  it  rose  out  of  the  loch.  Their  talk  flagged 
a  little  after  they  had  passed  by  Kinloch  and  neared  the  birch 
wood.  They  entered  its  black  shadow,  and  walked  a  few 
hundred  yards;  then  Angus  stopped. 

1  Let's  listen,'  he  said,  in  a  whisper. 

They  stood  absolutely  still,  almost  breathless,  but  not  a  sound 
broke  the  still  and  heavy  air. 

'  I  don't  think  there's  any  use  going  further,'  said  Angus  then. 
4  My  father  might  go  round  by  Garrows.  It's  not  a  nice  road 
this  after  dark,  and  he  would  take  the  chance  of  a  drive  if  IK; 
got  it.  The  horse  was  tired  with  thirty  miles  this  morning, 
that's  why  he  walked.' 

'  Well,  if  you  are  satisfied,  we  can  go  back,'  said  Fergus. 
'  We  might  wait  here  long  enough.  As  like  as  not,  Malcolm 
Menzies  will  be  locked  in  his  own  house  by  this  time.  1 
wonder,  though,  they  don't  move  to  have  him  taken  away.  It 
really  isn't  safe  for  him  to  be  going  about.' 

'  I  don't  think  he'd  do  much  harm  myself,'  said  Angus 
lightly.  '  Are  you  going  straight  along  to  Shonnen  ? ' 

'  Yes ;  I'm  too  late  as  it  is,'  said  Fergus ;  and  they  walked 
very  sharply  back  to  Kinloch. 

*  Good-bye,  then,'  said  Fergus,  stretching  out  his  hand.  '  I 
won't  likely  see  you  again.  Give  my  love  to  Mrs.  M'Bean. 
You  needn't  be  jealous,  when  I'm  going  away  so  soon  and  so 
far.' 

'  Not  a  bit,  thank  you,  Fergus.     Good-bye,'  said  Angus,  &iid 


33° 


SHEILA. 


went  whistling  over  the  bridge,  and  away  back  to  Auchloy, 
thinking  all  the  way  of  his  bonnie  wife,  whom  he  would  see 
again  by  that  hour  on  the  morrow.  When  he  arrived,  he 
found  that  his  father  had  not  come  home.  The  hours  passed, — 
ay,  and  the  night, — but  Angus  M'Bean  the  elder  returned  no 
more  to  his  home. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIIL 


PEACE. 

Love  found  me  in  the  wilderness. 
Where  I  myself  had  lost. 


TBENCH. 


HE  sun  had  not  set  when  Ellen  Macleod  crossed  over 
the  Girron  Brig  that  evening  for  the  first  time 
since  the  day  of  Macdonald's  burying.  She  could 
not  but  think  of  that  day  and  of  its  bitterness. 
She  wished  she  could  forget,  but  memory  is  relentless  when 
her  record  has  a  sting  of  remorse.  It  was  a  fine  mild  evening, 
the  air  motionless  and  heavy,  and  the  sun  sank  under  a  great 
mass  of  dark  purple  cloud,  made  somewhat  weird  by  the  sharp 
edge  of  blood-red  against  it.  There  was  rain  in  that  purple 
cloud. 

The  burn  was  big  with  the  spring-tide  showers,  and  danced 
and  leaped  merrily  under  the  old  bridge,  on  which  all  the 
mosses  were  green,  nnd  little  clumps  of  delicate  oak  fern,  spring- 
ing here  and  there  in  odd  corners,  contrasted  finely  with  the 
yi-llow  of  the  primroses  and  the  stonecnp.  There  was  a  dreamy, 
far-off  look  upon  the  serene  face  of  Ellen  Macleod  as  she  trod 
that  familiar  way,  and  before  she  went  within  the  shadow  of  the 
trees  on  the  carriage-way,  she  turned  and  looked  back  upon 
Amulree  and  Shonnen,  and  then  away  up  the  Glen  to  the  trees 
at  Shiin.  Her  lips  moved,  and  her  eyes  shone.  She  wa? 


33  a  SHEILA. 

bidding  farewell  to  it  all,  her  last  farewell.  As  she  looked,  her 
lips  moved  silently,  perhaps  in  prayer.  The  hall  door  stood 
wide  open  at  Dalmore,  and  just  within  it  the  staghound  was 
lying,  as  if  keeping  guard  over  it.  He  raised  his  majestic  head 
and  gave  a  growl  at  sight  of  the  stranger,  and  then,  as  if  moved 
by  a  second  thought,  he  came  slowly  to  meet  her,  giving  his  tail 
a  friendly  wag  to  reassure  her.  She  laid  her  hand  on  his  head, 
and  spoke  a  word  to  him,  which  appeared  to  please  him  hugely, 
for  he  gambolled  before  her  in  his  uncouth  fashion  up  to  the 
door.  The  dog's  welcome  pleased  her.  It  seemed  to  augur 
well  for  her  reception  within.  The  housemaid  who  answered 
the  bell  looked  very  genuinely  surprised  to  see  her. 

'  Step  into  the  library,  ma'am,  if  you  please,  and  I'll  tell  Miss 
Sheila,'  she  said,  holding  open  the  library  door.  An  ordinary 
caller  would  have  been  ushered  at  once  to  the  drawing-room, 
but  the  girl  was  dubious  whether  her  young  mistress  would  see 
Mrs.  Macleod.  She  saw  her  look  of  surprise  when  the  girl  gave 
her  the  name,  but  without  a  moment's  hesitation  she  went 
downstairs.  She  stood  just  a  second  at  the  library  door,  for 
her  heart  was  beating  more  quickly  than  usual.  She  did  not 
know  what  this  visit  of  Ellen  Macleod  might  portend.  When 
she  entered  the  room  her  colour  was  heightened,  and  when  Ellen 
Macleod  turned  from  the  window  and  saw  the  lissom  figure  in 
soft  grey,  the  sweet  face  crowned  by  its  plaits  of  sunny  hair,  and 
wearing  a  half-startled  look,  she  thought  she  had  never  beheld 
a  more  lovely  creature. 

'Good-evening,'  Sheila  said  kindly,  but  did  not  offer  her 
hand.  She  did  not  quite  know  how  to  act.  The  memory  of  the 
past  was  with  her,  but  there  was  that  in  the  face  of  Ellen 
Macleod  she  had  never  seen  upon  it  before,  and  which  seemed 
to  make  the  childish  terror  more  and  more  like  a  dream. 

Ellen  Macleod  looked  for  a  moment  on  the  girl's  sweet, 
flushed  face,  then  she  advanced  swiftly,  with  outstretched 
hands. 

'  Will  you  touch  my  hand  in  friendship,  Sheila  Macdonald, 
just  to  give  me  courage  to  go  on  ? ' 

'  I  do  not  understand  you,'  Sheila  faltered  ;  and  she  laid  her 
own  soft,  warm  young  hands  on  those  outstretched  to  her. 


PEACE.  333 

Then  Ellen  Macleod  bent  and  kissed  them,  before  she  drew 
herself  away. 

'  I  have  come,  though  late,'  she  said,  with  a  curious  huski- 
ness  in  her  voice,  '  to  ask  your  forgiveness  for  all  the  wrong  I 
have  done  to  you.1 

'It  is  nothing!'  cried  Sheila,  out  of  her  sweet  compassion — 
'  nothing  at  all.  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you.  Do  sit  down  ;  do 
come  up  and  take  off  your  bonnet,  and  stay  with  me  for  a  little. 
I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  at  Dalmore.' 

'  Oh,  child  !  you  make  me  ashamed,'  cried  Ellen  Macleod,  and 
her  proud  mouth  trembled.  '  Can  you  forgive  me,  not  only  for 
yourself,  but  for  those  who  are  away  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  yes  ;  don't  say  another  word  1 '  cried  Sheila,  with  wet 
eyes,  and  a  smile  which  radiated  her  whole  face.  '  Look  at  my 
mother  there  in  the  picture.  She  seems  to  s.mile  upon  us. 
I  am  sure  she  is  glad  to  see  us  together.' 

Ellen  Macleod  broke  down.  She  threw  herself  in  a  chair,  and 
sobbed  convulsively  ;  and  Sheila,  moving  to  her  side,  laid  her 
hand  gently  on  her  shoulder,  but  said  never  a  word. 

'  I  have  been  a  wicked  woman,  Sheila,'  she  said  at  length. 
'  God  sent  me  a  terrible  lesson  that  night  Fergus  came  here. 
I  thought  I  had  sent  him  to  his  death.  It  was  a  terrible 
lesson,  but  not  more  terrible  than  I  needed.  My  heart  was 
like  the  nether  millstone,  Sheila,  but  that  awful  night  broke  it. 
I  could  not  live  through  such  another.' 

Sheila  touched  the  white  hair  with  a  very  tender,  lingering 
touch.  There  was  something  almost  divine  in  the  look  upon 
her  face.  She  had  a  heart  an  angel  might  have  envied.  She 
only  wished  she  could  wipe  away  every  sting  which  memory 
had  planted  in  the  bosom  of  the  woman  by  her  side.  The 
past  was  forgotten.  Its  harshest  discords  were  lost  in  the  sweet 
harmony  of  this  blessed  moment.  Her  heart's  desire  was  ful- 
filled. The  only  enemy  she  had  had  in  the  world  was  now  her 
friend.  A  sense  of  the  goodness  and  mercy  of  God  filled  the 
child's  soul  with  a  song  of  humble  thanksgiving.  She  could 
have  knelt  upon  her  knees  and  prayed. 

4 1  have  long  wished  to  come,  but  my  courage  failed  me. 
When  I  thought  of  what  I  had  done  to  you,  of  the  wicked 


334  SHEILA. 

thoughts  I  had  entertained  towards  you,  my  conscience  seemed 
to  dare  me  to  come.  But  we  go  away  to-morrow,  and  I  told 
myself  that  I  could  not  go  without  a  word  of  forgiveness  and 
farewell.' 

'  Oh,  I  wish  you  were  not  going  now ! '  cried  Sheila 
impulsively.  '  How  different  it  would  be  1  Could  you  not 
stay  even  yet  ? ' 

Ellen  Macleod  shook  her  head,  with  a  somewhat  sad 
smile. 

'  No ;  our  course  is  shaped,  and  we  must  fulfil  our  destiny. 
And  it  will  be  for  my  son's  good.  He  will  have  out  there 
the  life  he  loves,  and  has  always  craved  for.  Sheila  Macdonald, 
if  you  live  to  have  sons  of  your  own,  you  will  understand  what  I 
feel  now,  though  you  will  never  be  able  to  understand  the  part 
I  acted  towards  my  boy  in  his  youth.  I  was  not  fit  to  be  a 
mother,  nor  to  have  the  care  and  upbringing  of  a  child.  When 
I  look  upon  my  son  I  am  amazed  that  he  should  be  such  as  he 
is.  God  has  not  punished  me  as  I  deserved,  though  that  night 
I  feared  He  had.' 

Sheila  was  silent,  with  her  tender  touch  still  upon  the  shoulder 
of  Fergus's  mother.  She  could  not  join  in  his  praise  ;  but  ah  ! 
what  was  in  her  heart  ? 

'  I  can  go  away  now  content,  Sheila  Macdonald,'  said  Ellen 
Macleod,  rising  at  length,  and  laying  her  hands  somewhat 
heavily  on  the  girl's  slender  shoulders.  '  And  I  go,  praying  God 
bless  Dalmore,  and  its  bonnie,  sweet  mistress,  for  ever  and  ever ! 
It  is  worthy  of  her,  and  she  of  it.' 

Sheila  bowed  her  head  under  that  blessing,  the  sweetest  she 
had  ever  heard. 

'  Would  you  not  go  through  the  house  before  you  go  ? '  she 
said  timidly.  '  You  might  like  a  last  look,  though  I  will  not 
believe  you  will  never  come  back  ;  and  if  there  is  anything  you 
would  care  to  take  to  keep  you  in  remembrance  of  Dalmore,  do 
not  hesitate,  I  entreat  you.  It  will  please  me  more  than  I  can 
say  if  you  will  but  take  whatever  you  would  like.' 

'  I  need  nothing  to  remind  me  of  Dalmore,'  said  Ellen 
Macleod,  with  a  touch  of  passionate  sadness  in  her  voice. 
'  Child,  child,  I  know  every  stone  and  tree  about  it.  I  can 


PEACE.  335 

shut    my   eyes   and   see    every    room    in    its    minutest    detail 
Tell  me,  did  the  white  heather  your  mother  planted  live  ?  ' 

'  O  yes ;  the  pots  are  in  the  greenhouse.  I  was  telling 
Lachlan  that  I  thought  the  weather  mild  enough  now  for  them 
to  be  brought  round  to  the  door.  They  are  covered  with  buds 
already.' 

*  Then  all  I  want  is  a  spray  with  a  little  root  at  it  to  plant  in 
a  pot  beside  a  bit  of  purple  heather  from  Shonnen ;  and  if  they 
grow  together,  Sheila,  it  will  be  an  emblem  of  my  hope.' 

But  what  that  hope  was  Sheila  did  not  ask.  It  might  be 
that  she  understood.  When  she  went  away,  Sheila  accompanied 
her  down  to  the  Girron  Brig,  and  in  the  solemn,  dusky  twilight 
they  parted  there. 

'  I  have  my  son's  message  yet,'  said  Ellen  Macleod.  '  He 
bade  me  tell  you  that  he  had  not  forgotten  the  last  night  of  the 
year,  nor  the  vow  he  made  to  you  then.  What  that  vow  was  I 
know  not,  but  I  pray  God  reward  you  for  the  good  words  you 
spoke  to  Fergus  Macleod  that  night.  They  were  his  salvation, 
and  whatever  his  future  may  be,  if  he  achieve  aught  that  is 
noble  or  worthy,  he  will  owe  it,  under  God,  to  you,  and  not  to 
me,  his  mother,  who  would  give  her  right  hand  for  the  privilege. 
I  can  only  wait  upon  and  serve  for  love ;  it  is  you  who  will 
make  the  man.  Have  you  any  message  for  the  boy  ?  His 
heart  will  hunger  for  a  word  to  carry  with  him  across  the  sea.' 

*  Tell  him,'  said  Sheila,  struggling  with  her  tears, '  that  I  have 
forgotten  that  night,  and  that  I  look  forward  to  the  day  when 
he  will  come  back.     Tell  him  that,  be  that  day  soon  or  late,  he 
will  find  a  welcome  at  Dalmore.' 

*  I  will.     Sheila,  will  you  kiss  me  before  I  go  ?     We  shall 
never  meet  again.' 

So  they  kissed  each  other  solemnly,  silently,  and  went  their 
separate'  ways.  Sheila's  heart  beat  with  a  hungry,  passionate 
pain  as  she  went  back  to  her  lonely  home.  Looking  from  out 
the  drawing-room  window  across  to  the  bright  light  in  the 
dining-room  at  Shonnen,  she  thought  she  would  give  much — ay, 
even  Dalmore  itself — to  go  with  these  exiles  across  the  sea.  All 
day  she  had  been  upheld  by  the  hope  that  Fergus  himself 
would  come  for  a  word  of  farewell,  and  to  see  if  she  had  any 


336  SHEILA. 

message  for  those  across  the  sea.  But  he  had  kept  his  vow  to 
see  her  face  no  more  until  he  should  have  redeemed  the  time, 
and  had  a  White  fair  page  to  lay  above  that  blemished  one 
which  would  be  ever  before  his  eyes  as  a  warning  and  a  shield  in 
the  time  of  temptation  or  moral  trial,  and  though  Sheila  under- 
stood it  all  quite  well,  and  honoured  him  for  his  stedfastness  of 
purpose,  her  woman's  heart  was  rebelliously  sore,  and  even  the 
future  seemed  dark  and  gloomy.  It  was  shrouded  in  uncertainty, 
and  she  could  not  find  much  comfort  even  in  the  thought  that 
Fergus  had  promised  to  come  back. 

Ellen  Macleod  was  home  before  Fergus.  She  found  Jessie 
Mackenzie  busy  among  the  baggage,  bustling  about  with  a  great 
sense  of  importance.  She  had  elected  to  throw  in  her  fortunes 
with  the  small  family  she  had  so  long  served,  and  they  were 
only  too  willing  to  take  her  with  them. 

'  I'm  sure  Maister  Fergus  needna  hae  bidden  sae  lang  at  the 
Fauld  the  nicht,'  were  the  words  with  which  she  greeted  her 
mistress.  '  There's  five  boxes  no'  roped,  an'  it's  nine  o'clock,  an' 
the  cart  comin'  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning.' 

'  Mr.  Fergus  will  not  be  long  of  roping  these,  Jessie,'  said  her 
mistress  good-humouredly.  '  Now,  while  you  were  packing,  did 
you  keep  to  the  lists  I  made  out,  so  that  we  can  lay  our  hands 
on  what  we  want  without  requiring  to  turn  every  box  out  ? ' 

'  Yes,  ma'arii,  everything's  richt ;  jist  ask  me  when  ye  want 
onything,  an'  Til  lay  my  finger  on  it  jist  at  once,'  replied  Jessie 
proudly  ;  and  just  then  Mr.  Fergus  returned,  and  her  mind  was 
relieved  by  the  sight  of  the  five  boxes  roped  and  labelled,  ready 
for  the  hold  of  the  Bosphorus. 

Over  the  fire  that  night  Fergus  and  his  mother  talked  of  past, 
present,  and  future,  and  when  she  gave  him  Sheila's  message 
he  never  said  a  word.  She  forbore  to  look  at  him  while  she 
delivered  it,  and  immediately  changed  the  subject,  for  which 
her  son  blessed  her  in  his  heart.  At  six  o'clock  next  morn- 
ing a  carriage  from  Dalmore  came  bowling  over  the  Girron  Brig, 
and  drew  up  at  the  gate  of  Shonnen.  The  coachman  had  a  note 
for  Mrs.  Macleod.  It  was  only  to  beg  that,  as  a  last  favour,  she 
would  make  use  of  the  carriage  to  the  station,  and  there  was  a 
basket  of  spring  flowers  and  some  hot-house  fruit  for  the  journey. 


PEACE.  337 

'  Hae  ye  heard  the  news  about  Aucliloy,  sir?*  asked  the  mau, 
touching  his  hat  to  Fergus  when  he  came  out  of  the  gate. 

'  No  ;  what's  that  ?  '  a*ked  Fergus,  in  a  startled  voice. 

*  He  wasna  hame  a'  nicht,  and  they've  found  him  this  morn- 
ing in  the  Braun  just  below  the  brig,  dead.' 

'  Drowned  ?  '  asked  Fergus,  in  horror. 

1  Ay ;  but  he  was  hurt,  they  say,  afore  he  was  thrown  over. 
They're  seekin'  for  Malcolm  Menzies.  He  hasna  been  in  the 
Fauld  since  the  forenicht  yesterday.  They  say  he's  awa1  ower 
the  hills  to  Aberfeldy,  clean  stark  mad.' 

Ah,  poor  Malcolm  Menzies !  The  bitter  end  had  come.  The 
nursing  of  a  revengeful  passion,  working  upon  an  excitable, 
overstrung  temperament,  had  thrown  reason  from  her  throne. 
Fergus,  remembering  their  laddie-time,  turned  away  with  his 
eyes  full  of  team. 


22 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 
HACDONALD'S  LAST  WILL. 

Does  the  road  wind  up  hill  all  the  way!— 
Yes,  to  the  very  end. 

n  HEY  found  poor  Malcolm  ere  the  day  was  far  spent, 
and  took  him  to  Perth  Prison  to  await  his  trial. 
The  trial  would  be  a  mere  form,  for  nothing  could 
be  proved;  and  it  was  probable  that,  after  the 
examination,  he  would  be  removed  to  the  asylum  at  Murthly. 
Colin  Fisher,  the  farmer  in  Kinloch,  had  been  the  first  to  see  the 
body  of  the  factor  lying  ou  the  river  bank  in  the  early  morning 
He  was  quite  dead,  with  a  long  bruise  on  the  temple,  administered 
by  some  heavy  instrument,  or  perhaps  sustained  in  his  fall.  The 
affair  was  discussed  in  all  its  bearings  with  that  morbid  minute- 
ness country  people  love.  The  wildest  rumours  were  afloat; 
but  as  there  were  no  eye-witnesses  to  the  straggle, — if  there  had 
been  a  struggle, — nothing  certain  could  be  known.  The  accept- 
able idea,  however,  was  that  Malcolm,  in  the  frenzy  of  the 
moment,  had  thrown  Angus  M'Bean  over  the  bridge.  It  was 
impossible,  owing  to  the  height  of  the  parapet,  that  he  could 
have  fallen  over  it,  even  if  struggling  close  by  it.  It  created  a 
painful  sensation  in  the  Glen,  where  both  were  well  known. 
There  was  nothing  but  pity  for  the  poor  lad  who  had  done  the 
cruel  deed;  and  as  for  Angus  M'Bean,  the  factor,  thoy  splice 


MACDONALD'S  LAST  WILL.  339 

kindly  of  him,  with  that  beautiful  touch  of  loving- kindness  and 
charity  which  death  never  fails  to  bring  forth.  He  is  a  callous 
man  who  will  speak  evil  of  the  dead.  Angus  M'Bean  the 
younger  went  through  to  Edinburgh,  and  brought  his  wife 
to  Auchloy  the  following  morning.  His  mother,  with  an 
unselfish  kindness  for  which  many  blessed  her,  and  none  more 
earnestly  than  poor  Katie  herself,  would  not  turn  her  back 
upon  the  innocent  because  of  another's  sin.  She  it  was  who 
wrote  the  sad  news  to  Katie,  and  she  gave  her  a  daughter's 
welcome  to  Auchloy.  And  in  a  few  days  all  was  over,  and 
Angus  M'Bean  was  laid  to  rest  in  the  kirkyard  at  Arnulree, 
and  his  faults  were  buried  with  him. 

During  that  trying  time  for  the  Auchloy  household,  Sheila 
was  constant  in  her  kind  attention  to  them.  It  was  in  such 
ways,  sharing  their  griefs,  and  sympathizing  with  their  joys, 
that  the  young  Lady  of  Dalmore  endeared  herself  to  her  people. 
She  believed  that  a  great  responsibility  rested  upon  her;  she 
held  her  heritage  as  a  solemn  trust,  and,  as  far  as  her  knowledge 
went,  did  her  utmost  for  all  with  whom  she  had  to  deal.  There 
were  few  grumblings  now  in  Glenquaich,  for  Sheila  was  a  wise, 
just,  generous  mistress.  She  did  not,  however,  give  charity  to 
any  except  the  most  needy ;  she  had  a  shrewd  sense  of  what 
was  due  to  herself,  likewise ;  and  it  was  her  aim  and  desire  to 
foster  in  the  cottars  that  independent,  self-reliant  spirit  which 
was  wont  to  be  Scotland's  glory.  Of  indiscriminate  giving  she  had 
seen  the  evil,  and,  while  carrying  out  all  reasonable  improve- 
ments, and  giving  her  tenants  fair  conditions  under  which  to 
live,  she  required  that  there  should  be  no  arrears  of  rent  after 
some  past  debts  to  the  estate  were  wiped  away.  There  was  no 
excuse  for  the  idle  or  the  shiftless,  and  these,  of  course,  com- 
plained that  the  new  rule  was  as  hard  as  the  old.  Sheila  knew 
every  household  in  the  Glen,  and  kept  the  black  sheep,  of  whom 
there  were  a  few,  strictly  under  her  own  surveillance.  She 
had  her  troubles ;  sometimes  her  generous  kindness  and  honest 
endeavours  were  met  by  ingratitude  and  disappointment ;  but, 
on  the  whole,  the  Glen,  and  especially  the  Fauld,  was  in  a 
flourishing,  contented  state.  Shortly  after  the  factor's  death, 
and  having  first  taken  counsel  with  her  friend  and  adviser,  Mr. 


340  SHEILA. 

• 

Colquhoun,  the  lawyer,  Sheila  rode  over  to  Aucliloy  one  night, 
towards  the  end  of  May,  to  interview  young  Angus  M'Bean. 
She  was  taken  into  the  drawing-room,  where  Katie,  looking 
very  white  and  tired,  had  lain  down  on  the  couch  for  a  rest. 
Malcolm  was  constantly  in  Katie's  heart.  Sheila  was  shocked 
to  see  her.  Could  that  pale,  shadowy  creature  in  the  black 
frock  be  the  bonnie  red-cheeked  Katie  of  yore  ?  She  started 
up,  ashamed  of  being  caught ;  but  Sheila's  kind  smile,  ever  ready, 
reassured  her. 

*  The  heat  has  tired  you,  Katie ;  isn't  it  very  hot  for  May  ? ' 
she  said  pleasantly.  *  I  hope  your  husband  is  in  ;  I  want  very 
much  to  see  him.' 

'  He  will  not  be  very  far  away,  Miss  Sheila,'  said  Katie,  and 
seated  herself  dispiritedly  on  the  sofa,  as  if  she  bad  lost  her 
interest  in  life. 

'  Katie,  you  look  quite  ill ;  I  am  afraid  you  are  vexing  your- 
self about  something.' 

'  It's  Malky,  Miss  Sheila ;  ye  see,  I  daurna  mention  his  name 
here  ;  but  oh,  if  I  could  only  see  him  1  Do  you — do  you  think 
hell  be  hanged  ? ' 

The  words  came  out  in  a  sort  of  gasp;  and  the  look  of 
absolute  terror  and  agony  on  Katie's  face  shocked  Sheila 
inexpressibly.  The  thought  of  Malcolm  on  the  scaffold  had 
dwelt  with  Katie  night  and  day,  and  was  eating  her  very  heart 
out.  Sheila  was  filled  with  compassion,  understanding  how  the 
poor  girl's  feelings  were  pent  up  in  her  own  breast.  She  must 
have  suffered  terribly  during  the  last  few  weeks. 

'  Hanged  I  O  no,  Katie  dear ;  you  must  not  think  of  such  a 
thing,'  she  said,  with  quiet  reassurance.  '  I  was  at  Crieff  to-day 
seeing  Mr.  Colquhoun,  and  we  were  speaking  about  Malcolm. 
He  says — and  you  know  he  is  a  very  clever  man,  Katie — that 
Malcolm  will  not  be  punished  at  all,  even  if  anything  were 
proved,  and  that  is  impossible;  he  was  not  responsible.  He 
will  be  sent  to  Murthly,  and  will  be  very  kindly  and  carefully 
dealt  with  there,  I  assure  you.  You  may  believe  what  I  am 
saying,  Katie,  for  I  would  not  deceive  you,  and  Mr.  Colquhoun 
knows  all  about  it.' 

Katie  burst  into  tears.     What  relief  these   words  gave  her 


MAC  DONALD'S  LAST  WILL.  341 

none  knew  but  herself.  She  dried  her  eyes  hastily  when  ihc 
door  opened  and  her  husband  entered.  She  left  the  room 
immediately;  and  Sheila  saw  how  Angus's  eyes  followed  her, 
and  knew  that  it  had  made  no  difference  to  him. 

'  Your  wife  has  been  vexing  herself  needlessly  about  her 
brother,'  said  Sheila,  after  she  had  shaken  hands  with  Angu«. 
'  I  quite  understand  how  she  cannot  talk  about  it,  even  to  you.'1 

'  I  saw  there  was  something  worrying  her.  I  know  what 
it  is.  But  they  can't  do  anything  to  him,  nor  would  we 
wish  it,'  said  Angus,  in  a  low  voice.  '  Poor  Malcolm  was  not 
responsible/ 

'I  have  just  been  telling  Katie  tHit  but  if  you  would  tell  her 
too,  I  am  sure  it  would  do  good,'  said  Sheila.  '  I  came  over  to 
see  you  on  a  little  matter  of  business.  Are  you  going  back  to 
Edinburgh  soon  ? ' 

'  Indeed,  I  don't  know,  Miss  Sheila ;  I  must  stay  here,  I 
suppose,  till  I  get  something  to  do,'  said  Angus,  with  rather  a 
melancholy  smile,  for  he  had  found  office -seeking  a  heartless 
task. 

'Would  you  care  to  take  your  father's  place?'  Sheila  asked 
at  once. 

Angus  M'Bean  flushed  all  over  with  surprise  and  delight.  The 
idea  had  not  occurred  to  him,  as  he  did  not  consider  himself 
qualified  for  such  a  post. 

'  I  am  not  fit,  Miss  Sheila.  I  have  had  no  experience — 
practical  experience,  I  mean ;  but  I  would  do  my  utmost  to 
serve  you,'  he  said,  not  without  emotion. 

'  I  am  sure  of  that ;  and,  you  know,  as  to  experience,  we  will 
be  the  less  likely  to  fall  out,  for  I  have  a  great  many  whims. 
Do  you  think  you  could  put  up  with  them  ? ' 

Angus  M'Bean  did  not  for  the  moment  speak.  A  load  was 
lifted  from  his  heart.  He  saw  that  it  was  not  a  wise  nor  a  good 
thing  for  him  and  his  young  wife  to  dwell  under  the  same  roof 
with  his  mother  and  sisters,  however  kind  they  might  be.  lie 
knew  that  it  must  soon  have  an  end.  He  had  almost  begun  to 
fear,  indeed,  that,  dearly  as  he  loved  Katie,  he  had  done  her  an 
injury  in  marrying  her  before  he  had  a  home  to  offer  her. 

'  You  mustn't  say  a  word,'  said  Sheila,  with  a  pretty,  wilful 


342  SHEILA. 

smile,  '  for  1  have  quite  made  up  my  mind  about  it,  and  laid  all 
my  plans.  Your  mother  and  sisters  will  stay  on  here, — that  is,  if 
they  wish  it,  and  you  and  Katie  can  live  at  Shonnen.  Mrs. 
Macleod  left  the  keys  with  me,  and  I  know  she  will  be  quite 
pleased  that  you  should  live  in  it.' 

'  Katie  will  thank  you,  Miss  Sheila,  for  I  cannot,'  said  Angus 
M'Bean  huskily  ;  '  but  I  will  do  my  utmost  to  serve  you.' 

'  I  am  sure  of  it,  and  I  need  no  thanks,'  said  Sheila,  with  a 
sunny  smile.  '  I  have  spoken  to  Mr.  Colquhoun  about  it.  I 
went  to  see  him  to-day  for  that  purpose.  You  will  go  down  to 
Crieff  at  an  early  day,  Mr.  M'Bean,  will  you  not,  and  settle  the 
whole  matter  with  him  ?  And  now  I  must  shake  hands  with 
my  new  factor,  and  run  away,  for  the  boy  will  be  tired  of 
holding  Rob  Roy,  who  has  a  rooted  aversion  to  a  strange  hand 
on  his  bridle.' 

She  would  not  wait  for  thanks.  Sheila  did  not  do  good  for 
selfish  motives,  to  win  approbation  and  flattery  and  praise.  She 
was,  as  I  said,  honestly  striving  to  fill  worthily  and  well  the 
responsible  place  God  had  apportioned  to  her.  She  did  the 
duty  lying  to  her  hand,  and  so  found  a  blessing  with  it.  She 
went  away  from  Auchloy  that  night  leaving  sunshine  behind. 
She  had  given  to  the  young  couple,  who  had  nothing  in  this 
world  but  loving  hearts  and  willing  hands,  an  aim  and  a  hope 
for  the  future.  The  very  day  after  his  son's  hasty  marriage, 
Angus  M'Bean  the  elder  had  drawn  up  a  new  will,  leaving 
everything  to  his  wife  and  daughters.  Young  Angus  had  not 
even  the  proverbial  shilling  to  console  him,  and  matters  had 
begun  to  look  serious  for  him  and  his  young  wife.  But  Angus 
would  not  long  have  remained  idle.  Lov6  had  made  a  man  of 
him,  and  he  would  not  be  ashamed  to  soil  his  hands  for  Katie. 

Sheila  gave  Rob  Roy  the  rein  going  home,  and  that  frisky 
animal  almost  flew  over  the  road.  She  wanted  some  violent, 
invigorating  influence;  the  days  had  been  strangely  dark  and 
even  purposeless  since  Fergus  went  away.  She  had  thought 
that  there  would  not  be  much  difference.  She  had  seen  him  so 
seldom,  even  while  he  was  in  Edinburgh ;  but  ah  1  the  rolling 
sea  was  a  strange  barrier,  and  the  world  beyond  Glenquaich  was 
Very  wide.  She  had  quite  decided,  indeed,  after  the  business 


MACDONALHS  LAST  WILL.  343 

about  the  new  factor  was  concluded,  to  go  over  to  Murrayshaugh 
for  a  week.  She  was  wearying  to  see  Aunt  Ailsa,  and  Alastair 
also,  because  lie  would  talk  to  her  about.  Fergus. 

Ah  I  in  some  things,  after  all,  Sh.fi  la  was  a  little  selfish.  She 
did  not  take  into  account  that  Alastair's  honest  heart  might 
have  received  a  serious  wound.  But  he  had  certainly  done  his 
best  to  show  her  that  he  did  not  mind  his  dismissal  in  the  least. 

After  dinner  that  evening,  Sheila  went  into  the  library  to 
write  two  letters, — a  brief  note  to  her  aunt,  fixing  a  day  for 
Murrayshaugh,  and  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Macleod,  acquainting  her 
with  her  rapid  disposal  of  the  house  at  Shonnen.  There  was 
a  deep  drawer  in  the  escritoire,  in  which  still  lay  all  the  books 
which  had  been  Macdonald's  companions  in  his  last  illness. 
Sheila  had  wished  them  to  be  placed  there  untouched.  She 
opened  the  drawer  to  use  the  blot  ting-book,  her  own  being  up 
in  her  dressing-room,  and,  almost  involuntarily,  she  began  to 
spell  out  once  more  the  disjointed  words  which  had  been  im- 
pressed on  it  the  last  time  it  was  used.  Then  the  old  shadow 
crept  up,  chilly  and  darkly,  over  her  heart, — the  bygone  fear 
lest  she  should  be  enjoying  the  heritage  of  another,  lest  Fergus 
Macleod  should  have  gone  forth  to  a  life  of  toil  and  hardship 
when  he  should  be  by  right  Laird  of  Dalmore.  After  poring 
over  the  book  for  a  long  time,  she  began  to  lift  the  other  things 
out  one  by  one.  At  the  bottom  lay  the  Bible  which  Macdonald 
had  been  reading  the  day  he  died.  It  was  an  old-fashioned 
volume,  with  curious  leather  covers,  which  had  a  lining  of  green 
silk,  and  a  little  pocket  into  Avhich  the  boards  of  the  book  were 
slipped.  Sheila  looked  at  the  old  volume  with  interest,  and, 
when  she  opened  it,  a  faint  perfume  of  dried  rosemary  and 
thyme  greeted  her,  and  it  seemed  to  have  a  message  from  the 
past.  Just  as  she  was  about  to  close  it,  the  leaves  slipped  over 
to  the  last  page,  and  she  then  noticed  a  folded  paper  within  the 
green  silk  pocket  made  by  the  lining.  Without  a  thought — 
certainly,  without  the  least  suspicion  of  its  contents — she  slipped 
it  out,  and  unfolded  it  on  the  desk.  Then  her  face  became  very 
white,  and  her  hand  trembled  so  that  she  could  scarcely  hold 
the  paper.  It  was  what  she  had  so  long  looked  for, — what 
would  have  set  everything  right  in  the  old  bitter  days  if  only 


344  SHEILA. 

it  had  been  found.     The  few  cramped,  uneven  words   were  as 
follows : — 

'  This  is  my  last  will  and  testament.  I  leave  Dalmore  and 
Findowie  to  my  nephew,  Fergus  Macleod,  upon  one  condition, — 
that  he  marries  my  beloved  daughter,  Sheila  Murray  Macdonald, 
and  adds  the  name  of  Macdonald  to  his  own.  If  he  will  not 
fulfil  these  conditions,  my  former  will,  drawn  up  by  Colquhoun, 
will  stand  good, 

4  GRAHAM  MACDONALD.' 

As  she  read,  the  hot  blood  chased  away  the  paleness  from 
Sheila's  neck  and  cheek  and  brow.  She  laid  her  arms  down 
upon  the  table,  and  buried  her  burning,  throbbing  face  upon  it, 
and  cried  until  she  was  weak  and  spent.  It  was  not  a  pleasant 
discovery  for  a  young  girl.  Graham  Macdonald  had  not  in 
this  done  well  by  the  child  he  so  loved.  For  there  had  been 
no  spoken  love  between  her  and  Fergus  Macleod,  and  yet,  in 
the  interests  of  truth  and  right,  the  contents  of  this  will  must 
be  divulged.  Poor  Sheila!  her  proud  young  heart  had  to  steer 
its  way  through  many  bitter  waters  before  it  anchored  in  the 
haveu  of  love. 


CHAPTER  XL. 


'THE  CAMPBELLS  ARE  COMIN*.' 

Bat  I  dinna  see  the  broom,  wi'  its  tassels,  on  the  lea, 
Nor  hear  the  lintie's  sang  o'  my  ain  countrie. 

GlLFILLAH. 

HE  close  of  one  of  the  sweet  days  of  early  summer 
in  the  far  "West.  The  soft  air  was  resonant  with 
the  hum  of  the  insect  world,  and  laden  with  the 
delicate  odours  of  budding  leaf  and  bursting  bloom 
The  maplea  had  donned  their  loveliest  attire ;  the  sumach  had 
its  tender,  bright  shoots  spread  out  in  the  sun,  beech  and  oak 
and  ash  flaunted  their  emerald  hues  beside  the  sombre  leafage 
of  the  pine.  There  were  'yellow  buds  on  the  stately  golden 
rod,  and  the  forest  primeval  was  carpeted  with  a  wondrous 
carpet  of  gaudy  lilies,  red  and  white  and  yellow,  standing  up 
bravely  on  their  delicate  but  sturdy  stems,  and  verily  making 
the  desert  to  blossom  as  the  rose.  The  grass  was  living  green 
on  the  rough  roadsides,  and  the  sparrows  chirped  noisily  in 
every  bough ;  and  sometimes  the  dainty  blue  jay,  vain  of  his 
pretty  dress,  would  perch  on  the  rail  of  the  quaint  snake-fence, 
and  utter  his  cheery  but  not  very  musical  note.  The  sky  was 
crystal  clear,  shading  to  westward  from  palest  amber  to  flaming 
red  and  gold.  The  masses  of  the  forest  trees  stood  out  against 
it  with  startling  clearness,  and  a  soft  mellow  light  lay  on  the 
clustering  homesteads,  as  if  shedding  upon  them  a  benisun  of 


346  SHEILA. 

goodwill  and  peace.  The  fall  wheat  was  green  on  the  little 
cleared  patches,  and  the  healthy  tops  of  the  mangolds  showing 
in  other  places  between  the  stumps  of  the  trees. 

It  had  been  no  light  labour  to  which  the  pioneers  from  Glen- 
quaich  had  set  themselves ;  but  their  hearts  did  not  fail  them, 
for  wherever  they  put  in  their  ploughshare  mother  earth  yielded 
them  a  bountiful  return.  The  landscape  was  very  flat,  varie- 
gated only  by  the  dark  masses  of  the  bush,  with  here  and  there 
a  rolling  breadth  of  rising  ground,  which  could  hardly  be  called 
a  hillock. 

The  homesteads  were  primitive,  but  picturesque ;  the  houses 
being  built  of  substantial  logs,  welded  together  with  rough 
cement,  and  roofed  with  shingles,  —  pieces  of  wood  cut  and 
laid  after  the  manner  of  slates.  The  roomy  barn,  which  in- 
cluded stable  and  byre  and  granary, — in  a  word,  the  whole 
'  steading '  of  a  Scotch  farm-place, — was  built  after  the  same 
style,  and  represented  an  extraordinary  amount  of  labour.  The 
several  house  and  barn  raisings  in  the  township  had  been  a 
source  of  great  interest  and  amusement  to  the  younger  emi- 
grants, though  the  expedition  with  which  the  older  settlers 
wrought  when  they  came  to  help,  and  the  amount  of  laborious 
toil  they  put  into  the  working  hours,  rather  astonished  some 
of  the  lazier  members  of  the  new  community.  Imitation  is  a 
good  thing,  and  these  barn  raisings  brought  out  the  '  smed- 
dum '  of  the  Highland  exiles  as  years  of  *  daidlin' '  at  home 
would  never  have  done.  The  roads  were  very  rough  and  un- 
even ;  the  ground  in  many  places  being  swampy,  a  difficulty 
obviated  by  the  laying  of  logs  across  the  way.  As  time  went 
on,  and  drainage  became  more  common,  the  roads  in  the  new 
township  would  improve.  The  principal  road  led  direct  from 
the  little  village  to  the  nearest  railway  station,  twenty-three 
miles  distant. 

The  village,  called  so  by  courtesy  only,  consisted  of  one  store, 
of  that  curious  type  seen  nowhere  but  in  the  backwoods  of 
a  new  country  ;  a  blacksmith's  shop ;  and  a  little  frame  house, 
which,  from  its  shape  and  appearance,  was  evidently  a  phice 
of  worship.  On  this  fine  evening  the  village  or  township 
of  Fergus  Creek  seemed  to  be  in  a  state  of  unprecedented 


•  THE  CAMPBELLS  ARR  COMIN*:          347 

liveliness.  The  little  creek,  a  limpid,  pellucid  stream,  flowing 
in  a  sandy  bed,  like  the  burn  in  the  old  song,  '  wimpled  through 
the  clachan,'  and  the  smiddy  stood  '  ayont  it,'  and  at  the 
smiddy  door,  the  centre  of  an  interested  and  excited  throng, 
stood  our  old  friend  Donald  Macalpine,  the  smith,  looking  more 
hale  and  hearty  than  he  had  ever  done  in  Achnafauld.  Donald 
had  not  changed  his  trade,  for,  of  course,  wherever  there  are  a 
number  of  farms  in  a  district,  a  smiddy  is  indispensable,  so 
Donald  felt  himself  so  much  at  home,  that  if  he  had  only  had  a 
4  reekin'  lum,'  as  he  said  sometimes  to  Mary,  he  could  hardly 
have  believed  himself  away  from  the  old  Glen.  But  whether 
it  was  that  Canadian  wood  burned  more  clearly  than  Highland 
peat,  it  is  certain  that  the  smiddy  lum  never  bothered  Donald 
at  all.  The  smith  was  dressed  in  his  best,  as  also  were  the 
others,  whose  faces  were  mostly  familiar.  From  out  the  open 
door  of  Donald's  pretty  frame  cottage,  which  had  received  a 
new  coat  of  pink  paint,  which  made  it  look  very  smart  indeed, 
there  came  a  very  appetizing  odour  of  all  sorts  of  good  things 
cooking  for  a  feast.  Presently,  Mary  herself,  looking,  oh  1  so 
sonsie  and  young,  came  out  to  the  door,  the  gay  ribbons  of  her 
cap  fluttering  excitedly  about  her  flushed  face. 

'Ony  word  yet,  Donald?  The  jeuks  is  dune  to  a  turn,  an' 
the  kettle's  beginnin'  to  bile  in.' 

'  They  canna'  be  lang  noo,  Mary,  my  woman,'  Donald 
answered  cheerily.  'Allooin'  an  hoor  for  the  train  bein'  late, 
they  should  be  here  in  aboot  ten  meenits.' 

'  Awa'  ayont  the  road,  then,  lads ;  an'  you,  Cam'll  Stewart,  gar 
yer  pipes  play  "The  Cam'lls  are  Comin'"  wi'  a*  yer  micht. 
Annie  an'  me  an'  Jeems's  wife  an'  the  weans  '11  be  daunerin* 
elter  ye.' 

Mary's  hint  was  acted  upon,  and  the  company  formed 
themselves  into  a  kind  of  procession,  and  marched  off  down  the 
road,  and  young  Campbell  Stewart,  the  third  laddie  of  the 
former  tenant  of  Turrich,  put  the  pipes  to  his  mouth,  and  blew 
the  familiar  blast  which  had  so  often  awakened  the  echoes  of 
the  Glenquaich  hills.  He  had  on  the  bright  Macdonald  kilf, 
plaid  and  all ;  and  every  man  in  the  township  who  possessed 
a  kilt  had  got  into  it,  and  it  was  like  a  miniature  Highland 


348  SHEILA. 

regiment  marching  along  the  road.  The  whole  clan  had 
gathered  in  the  clachan,  all  the  women  and  the  bairns  too; 
bonnie  Annie  Stewart,  young  Jamie's  wife,  with  a  bairn  in  her 
arms  and  one  at  her  skirts,  and  her  mother-in-law  too,  who, 
though  granny  now,  looked  almost  as  young  as  Annie  herself. 
James  Stewart  of  Turrich  had  never  ceased  to  bless  the  day 
which  had  brought  him  to  the  kindly,  healthy  land  across  the 
sea. 

Though  Mary  Macalpine's  face  was  wreathed  in  smiles,  there 
was  a  suspicious  dimness  about  her  eyes,  which  indicated  the 
working  of  an  inward  emotion.  There  was  a  nervousness  about 
her,  too,  and  again  and  again  she  broke  away  from  the  talk  of 
the  women  to  run  into  her  own  snug  kitchen  for  another  look 
at  the  table. 

*  If  it  had  only  been  Maister  Fergus  hissel',  Ailie  Stewart,' 
she  said  to  James  Stewart's  wife.  '  He  tak's  bite  an'  sup  wi' 
a'body,  an'  is  aye  pleased,  but  it's  anither  thing  to  cook  for  the 
leddy  o'  Shonnen.' 

4  Dinna  you  vox  yoursel',  Mary,  my  woman,'  Ailie  answered 
gently.  '  Efter  sailin'  on  the  sea,  an'  eatin'  dry  morsels  in  the 
train,  an*  the  kind  o*  meat  they  gie  ye  here  at  railway  stations, 
the  leddy  o'  Shonnen  will  no'  find  fault  wi'  your  table.  Better 
nor  her  micht  relish  it,  for  I  never  smelt  a  better  smell.' 

Mary  laughed ;  but  in  she  went  again,  for  the  sound  of  the 
pipes  had  turned  evidently,  and  was  now  being  borne  on  the 
swelling  bosom  of  the  wind  straight  towards  the  clachan. 

'  They're  comin',  Mary !  we  see  the  buggy  on  the  tap  o'  the 
hill  1  *  cried  Ailie  excitedly.  '  Come  awa',  granny's  doos,'  she 
added  to  the  bairns,  and  set  off  from  the  door. 

But  Mary  did  not  follow.  From  the  window-ledge  she 
took  a  little  flower-pot,  in  which,  bowered  among  green 
moss,  there  stood  up,  brave  and  bonnie  and  strong,  two 
yellow-eyed,  pink-lipped  gowans.  This  she  set  on  the  middle 
of  the  long  low  table,  which  was  covered  with  white  home- 
made bread  and  scones  and  oat  cakes,  and  golden  honey  and 
firm  yellow  butter  and  delicious  cheese,  all  made  by  loving 
hands  in  the  township.  Every  household  had  sent  something 
to  Mary  Macalpine's  table  that  night  to  tempt  the  exiles  from 


•  THE  CAMPBELLS  ARE  COMIJV'.'          349 

over  the  sea.  Mary's  hands  trembled  as  she  touched  the 
gowans.  God  alone  knew  with  what  love  she  had  tended  that 
sweet  keepsake  from  her  bairnie's  grave.  And  when  the  first 
bud  had  become  a  bonnie  flower,  she  hiid  received  it  as  a  direct 
message  of  comfort  from  the  heaven  where  her  bairn  was 
waiting  for  her.  As  she  heard  the  din  coming  nearer  the 
house,  she  ran  into  the  parlour,  and,  breaking  a  wee  bit  heather 
from  the  big  bunch  which  hung  always  above  the  mantelpiece, 
she  divided  it  into  two  sprigs,  and  laid  one  on  the  plate  at  the 
head  of  the  table  and  one  on  the  right  hand.  Then  she  put 
the  tea  in  the  teapot,  and,  all  trembling,  went  out  to  the  door. 

And  there  they  were :  the  young  Laird  himself  on  his  feet 
near  the  smiddy  door,  surrounded  by  all  the  folk,  talking  and 
laughing  in  the  most  delightful  excitement.  The  buggy  was 
close  behind,  and  there  sat  Ellen  Macleod,  in  the  front  seat 
beside  James  Stewart,  with  her  veil  up,  and  a  smile  of  sunshine 
and  peace  upon  her  face.  After  the  long,  weary  journey,  her 
heart  was  touched  inexpressibly  by  the  welcome  accorded  to 
them  by  their  ain  folk ;  and  though  she  knew  it  was  for  the 
boy's  sake,  she  did  not  grudge  him  it,  nor  feel  any  qualms  about 
her  own  reception.  She  had  to  win  the  folk,  and  she  would. 
Jamie  Stewart,  sitting  by  her  side,  and  hearing  her  talk  as  they 
drove,  had  felt  like  a  man  in  a  dream. 

'  Hulloa,  Mary,  old  woman !     There  you  are ! ' 

Fergus  strode  from  among  the  throng,  and,  gripping  Mary's 
two  hands  firm  and  fast  in  his  strong  young  grasp,  bent  from 
his  tall  height  and  kissed  her  twice ;  and  then  what  a  '  Hurrah  ! ' 
broke  from  the  people. 

4  He's  my  laddie,  my  ain  laddie ! '  she  said  brokenly.  '  Let 
me  gang,  see,  an'  speak  to  your  mither.  Ye'll  excuse  us,  my 
leddy;  you  see,  he  was  aye  oor  laddie  in  the  Fauld.' 

'  I  am  his  mother,  and  it  does  me  good  to  see  how  he  is 
beloved,'  Ellen  Macleod  said  ;  and  when  she  alighted  from  the 
buggy,  she  took  Mary's  hands  too,  and  looked  into  the  honest 
face  with  a  wistful  smile.  '  You  have  a  welcome  for  me  for  my 
son's  sake.  I  see  it  in  your  eyes.' 

This  fairly  broke  Mary  down. 

'  Come  in,  come  in  I  dinna  speak,  my  leddy,  but  come  in  !    The 


350  SHEILA. 

tea's  a'  ready,  an'  yer  bed's  clean  an*  sweet  wi'  linen  spun  in  the 
Fauld ;  an'  see,  there's  the  heather  and  the  gowans  frae  Shian, 
an'  a'  things  that's  hamelike  an'  canny  ! — But  guid  Lord  help 
me  1  Donald  says  I'm  an  auld  fule,  an'  so  I  am.  Come  in, 
come  in ! ' 

When  Ellen  Macleod  saw  the  table  spread  with  so  much  good 
cheer,  and  was  ushered  into  the  dainty  little  bed-chamber  Mary 
had  provided  for  her,  and  above  all,  as  she  saw  the  kindly  light 
of  welcome  in  the  face  of  the  smith's  wife,  her  composure  shook. 
Oh,  how  she  had  misunderstood  and  misjudged  the  folk,  whose 
hearts  were  as  pure  as  gold ! 

'  I  do  not  know  what  to  say,  Mrs.  Macalpine.  I  feel  your 
kindness  in  my  heart.  My  boy  will  thank  you.  I  trust  every- 
thing to  him.' 

Then  Mary  knew  that  a  great  and  wonderful  change  had 
taken  place  in  the  relations  between  mother  and  son,  and  her 
hands  were  very  gentle  as  she  helped  the  mistress  of  Shonnen 
off  with  her  many  wraps. 

'  It's  a  lang,  weary  journey,  my  leddy ;  but,  my  certy  I  ye  are 
better  aff  than  we  were  when  we  cam',  for  there's  a  guid  meal 
o'  meat  waitin'  ye.  Sirce !  when  I  cam',  an'  saw  naething  but 
trees  an'  trees  an'  better  trees,  and  was  telt  we  had  to  cut  them 
doon  to  build  a  biggin'  o',  I  felt  gey  queer.  It's  no'  an  ill 
country,  ma'am,  when  ye  get  used  to  it.  An'  the  sticks  burn 
better  nor  the  peat,  though  baith  ways  the  fire's  like  a  hungert 
bairn, — aye  greet-in'  for  mair.  There's  water,  ma'am,  to  wash 
yer  face ;  an'  I'll  dish  up  the  jeuks  that  Rory  Maclean  shot  twa 
days  ago  in  the  swamp,  and  they're  mair  tender  than  the  grouse 
or  patricks  on  Craig  Hulich.  An'  to  think  that  no'  three  weeks 
ago  ye  walkit  the  auld  roads,  an'  saw  the  loch  shin  in'  in  the  sun  1 
But  I  maun  awa' ;  I'm  a  stupid  auld  wife  I  * 

'  How  mony  hae  ye  room  for,  Mary,  at  the  table  ?'  crfed  Donald, 
putting  his  Tarn  o'  Shanter  round  the  door.  '  The  Laird'll  no' 
sit  doon  his  lane.' 

'  We  could  pit  doon  nine  or  ten.  Bid  the  Laird  wale  them, 
an'  Til  bring  cups,'  Mary  answered  back  ;  and  what  a  laughing 
and  joking  there  was  over  the  Laird's  '  walin ! '  PTe  chos-  all 
the  old  folks,  and  when  they  were  gathered  round  the  board 


*THE  CAMPBELLS  ARE  COM  IN*.  351 

was  himself  the  only  young  one  among  them.  His  mother  sal 
by  his  right  hand ;  and  then,  after  Donald  had  asked  the 
blessing,  in  a  broken  and  quite  inaudible  voice,  Fergus  got  up 
to  his  feet. 

'  Friends,'  he  said,  and  his  manly  voice  shook,  and  the  red 
flush  of  deep  emotion  spread  all  overhib  handsome  face — '  friends, 
I  want  to  thank  you  in  my  own  and  my  mother's  name 
for'— 

He  came  to  a  sudden  stop,  and  then  the  awkward  pause  was 
filled  by  the  sudden  music  of  the  pipes  striking  up  the  lively  air 
of  'Lady  Anne  Lindsay.'  So  Fergus  laughed,  and  sat  down. 
Then  the  '  jeuks,'  all  brown  and  savoury  and  tender,  were  set 
before  him  to  carve,  and  he  was  so  hungry  he  made  short  work 
of  them.  Ellen  Macleod  sat  very  quietly  by  his  side,  sipping 
the  delicious  tea,  and  enjoying  Mary's  dainty  morsels  to  the  full, 
but  not  saying  much.  She  was  content  to  stay  in  the  back- 
ground and  let  the  boy  be  first.  But  she  was  no  restraint  upon 
them,  for  the  few  words  she  spoke  were  so  gentle  and  kind  that 
they  looked  at  her  in  wonder,  and  reproached  themselves  for 
the  misgivings  they  had  entertained  about  her  coming.  It,  was 
a  merry,  merry  meal.  What  a  questioning  and  answering ! 
Fergus  was  sore  put  to  it  to  speak  and  eat  with  all  his  might 
at  once  1  As  was  to  be  expected,  they  were  eagerly  interested 
in  all  the  Fauld  news, — in  Katie  Menzies'  marriage  to  young 
M'Bean,  and  poor  Malcolm's  misdoing,  which  had  resulted  in 
the  untimely  end  of  the  factor.  He  had  been  a  harsh  task- 
master to  them,  but  they  genuinely  deplored  his  grievous 
death.  Late  that  night  Fergus  sat  up  round  the  fire,  with  the 
smith  and  James  Stewart  and  old  Rory  Maclean,  talking  of  the 
prospects  for  him  in  the  place.  They  were  of  the  brightest. 
There  was  a  large  farm,  the  greater  part  of  which  was  cleared, 
and  with  a  good  house  and  barn  attached,  for  sale  at  North  East 
Hope,  about  six  miles  from  Fergus  Creek.  The  price  was 
about  three  thousand  pounds  ;  and  as  Fergus  had  in  hand, 
with  his  own  and  his  mother's  means,  about  two-thirds  of  that 
sum,  there  would  be  no  difficulty  about  the  purchase.  The  old 
settlers  had  been  keeping  their  eye  on  it  ever  since  they  heard 
tell  of  the  young  Laird  coming,  and  there  was  little  to  do  but 


35*  SHEILA, 

see  those  who  had  the  selling  of  it,  and  enter  into  possession. 
The  owner  had  died  suddenly,  and  his  widow  and  daughter 
were  anxious  to  realize,  and  go  to  Toronto  to  live. 

In  a  very  few  weeks'  time  all  these  arrangements  were  made. 
Fergus  and  his  mother  saw  and  approved  the  place ;  the  deed 
of  purchase  was  drawn  out  and  signed  ;  and  the  end  of  June  saw 
the  little  household  from  Shonnen  settled  among  all  the  familiar 
furnishings  in  a  roomy  and  comfortable  frame  farm-house,  and 
Fergus  Macleod  a  Canadian  landowner  in  his  own  right 


CHAPTER   XLL 


A  MAIDEN'S  HEART. 

Alas  I  for  the  years  that  lie 

Between  lore's  reaping  and  sowing  1 

J.  B.  SELKIRK. 

|ADT  AILSA  was  extremely  puzzled  over  the  denoue- 
ment of  the  interesting  love  affair  between  Sheila 
and  Fergus  Macleod.  She  could  not  understand 
it  at  all,  and  felt  aggravated  with  the  foolish 
young  man  for  deliberately  turning  his  back  upon  good 
fortune  such  as  lies  in  the  way  of  very  few ;  and  not  good 
fortune  only,  but  as  sweet  and  winsome  a  wife  as  any  man 
could  ever  hope  to  win.  When  she  thought  how  much  her 
own  Alastair,  to  say  nothing  of  half  a  dozen  others,  would  have 
given  for  the  chance,  it  made  her  feel  very  sore  against  the 
independent  young  scion  of  the  house  of  Macdonald.  But 
then  she  knew  nothing  of  the  undercurrents,  for  dearly  as 
Sheila  loved  her  aunt,  there  were  some  things  she  could  not 
tell  her.  The  secret  of  Fergus's  fall  was  safe  with  the  women 
who  had  witnessed  it.  Where  the  interests  of  their  employers 
were  concerned,  Jane  Cameron  and  Jessie  Mackenzie  could 
be  as  silent  as  the  grave,  so  that  eventful  New  Year's  eve 
never  became  the  talk  of  Amulree.  Lady  Ailsa  knew  per- 
fectly well  that  Sheila  cared  for  Fergus ;  her  difficulty  now 
was  to  understand  the  condition  of  the  young  man's  mind 
23 


354  SHEILA. 

towards  her.  The  very  thought  that  her  darling  might  have 
given  the  whole  precious  wealth  of  her  heart  unasked,  and  to 
an  unappn-ciative  or  unresponsive  soul,  filled  her  with  indignant 
sorrow. 

She  was  sitting  over  her  sewing  in  her  own  boudoir  one  cold, 
chill  May  afternoon,  thinking  over  it  all,  with  a  little  heightened 
colour  in  her  face,  and  rather  a  vexed  expression  about  her 
mouth.  Sheila  was  a  care  to  her ;  and  it  was  perfectly  plain 
that  since  the  Macleods  left  Shonnen  the  child's  spirits  had 
deserted  her.  And  yet  she  would  not  leave  Dalmore,  where  she 
was  moping  and  eating  her  heart  out  about  something.  Lady 
Ailsa  was  planning  a  little  trip  to  the  Riviera  for  herself  and 
Sheila,  and  made  up  her  mind  that  Alastair  should  spend  a  week 
or  two  with  them  there.  For  if  Fergus  had  deliberately  retired 
from  the  field,  why,  then,  there  was  a  fair  chance  for  another, 
and  why  not  Alastair,  who,  though  too  happy  and  sensible  to 
grow  morose  and  melancholy  over  one  girl's  refusal,  would  no 
doubt  be  only  too  glad  if  Sheila  would  relent?  The  very  thought 
of  such  a  happy  ending  brought  a  delicious  smile  to  Lady  Ailsa's 
face,  and  it  was  on  her  lips  when  the  door  opened  suddenly, 
and  Sheila  herself  came  in.  She  had  on  her  riding  habit,  but 
had  put  off  her  hat  and  gloves  downstairs,  and  her  hair  was  all 
blown  about  her  face  by  the  rough  east  wind,  and  there  was 
the  loveliest  blush  of  the  rose  on  her  fair  cheek. 

'  You  witch !  I  was  thinking  of  you.  Did  you  divine  what 
I  wanted?'  said  Aunt  Ailsa,  with  her  warm  greeting.  'But 
how  dare  you  come  to  Murrayshaugh  in  that  costume?  When 
did  you  begin  to  make  formal  calls  upon  your  relatives  ?  ' 

'Never,  auntie.  Don't  bother  me.  Let  me  sit  down  here, 
see,  just  at  your  feet,'  said  the  girl  wearily,  '  and  don't  ask  me 
a  single  question,  or  say  anything.  I'm  going  to  speak  by  and 
by,  Aunt  Ailsa,  after  I  am  rested,  and  can  find  words.' 

She  threw  herself  on  a  stool  at  her  aunt's  feet,  and,  folding 
her  arms  on  her  knees,  laid  down  her  head,  and  a  long,  shiver- 
ing sigh  broke  from  her  lips.  Aunt  Ailsa's  kind  eyes  filled 
with  keen  concern.  She  saw  the  child's  heart  was  breaking, 
for  now  that  the  transient  flush  brought  by  the  wind's  caress 
had  faded,  her  face  was  quite  pale,  and  her  expression  sad 


A  MAIDEN'S  HEART.  355 

almost  to  hopelessness.  She  did  not  speak,  but  laid  her  motherly 
hand  above  the  girl's  slender  pale  fingers,  and  Sheila  caught 
it,  and  laid  her  cheek  against  it.  So  they  sat  in  silence  for  a 
time. 

'Aunt  Ailsa,'  came  at  length  very  low  from  Sheila's  lips, 
'  do  you  think  it  makes  God  very  angry,  if  sometimes,  when 
we  are  very  wretched,  we  think  we  would  not  mind  very  much 
though  death  came  to  end  it  all  ? ' 

'My  Sheila,  these  are  not  fitting  words  from  your  lips,'  Aunt 
Ailsa  replied  quite  gravely,  though  her  lips  trembled.  '  God 
has  blessed  yon,  my  darling,  above  many.' 

'  Oh,  I  know  He  has,  and  I  am  not  ungrateful,'  was  the  girl's 
passionate  answer.  'But  sometimes,  auntie,  I  think  it  would 
be  so  easy  to  be  poor,  and  even  not  in  good  health,  if  other 
things  were  different.  Is  it  wrong  to  think  that  I  have  too 
much  care  ?  I  can  never  remember  a  time  when  something 
did  not  weigh  upon  my  heart.  I  have  never  been  quite  happy, 
I  think,  since  mamma  and  I  lived  down  by  the  river.  It  is 
so  hard  to  grow  up.' 

'  I  know  what  weighs  upon  your  heart,  my  darling.  I  under- 
stand it  all,'  said  Aunt  Ailsa  softly. 

'Not  quite,  auntie,'  returned  Sheila  quickly.  'You  know 
some  things,  but  not  all.  It  was  very  hard  to  bear  when  they 
went  away,'  she  added  simply,  and  without  affectation.  '  But 
there  is  something  else.  It  happened  nearly  three  weeks  ago, 
and  I  have  been  trying  to  think  what  would  be  the  right  thing 
to  do,  Aunt  Ailsa.  I  have  found  papa's  will.' 

'Bless  me!  Sheila,  are  you  always  harping  on  that  old  fancy 
yet?' 

'No.  I  have  found  it,  and  here  it  is,  Aunt  Ailsa.  See,  1 
have  brought  it  to  you  to  read,  for  I  have  nobody  in  the  world 
now,  but  only  you.' 

She  drew  the  folded  scrap  of  paper  from  the  bosom  of  her 
dress,  and  gave  it  into  her  aunt's  hand.  Lady  Ailsa  put  on  her 
eyeglass,  and  scanned  the  few  words  which  were  of  such  serious 
import  to  the  girl  at  her  knee. 

'  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing!'  she  cried  indignantly.  '  It 
was  wrong  and  cruel  of  Macdonald  to  do  this,  Sheila.  I  cannot 


356  SHEILA. 

help  it,  if  I  speak  harshly  of  the  dead.  Why  did  you  go 
poking  about  in  odd  corners,  seeking  this  to  your  own  heart- 
break, child  ? ' 

'  I  didn't  poke ;  it  came  to  me.  I  suppose  the  time  had 
come,'  said  Sheila,  with  a  dreary  smile.  Then  her  colour  rose, 
and  her  lips  trembled.  '  Do  you  quite  understand  it,  auntie — 
do  you  see  the  wretched,  miserable  position  it  puts  me  m  ?  I 
am  offered  to  Fergus  Macleod,  and  he  is  bribed,  as  it  were,  to 
take  me.  There  is  no  condition  put  upon  me.  Suppose  I  had 
to  refuse  him,  he  would  be  kept  out  of  Dalmore,  and  could 
feel  aggrieved.  It  is  a  shameful  thing  1 ' 

'  Shameful !  It  is  a  disgrace  and  a  sin  ! '  quoth  Lady  Ailsa 
hotly.  '  Let  me  toss  it  into  the  fire.  I  wonder  you  did  not  do 
it  at  once,  child.' 

Sheila  shook  her  head,  and  turned  her  face  away  to  the 
window,  and  watched  the  green  tree-tops  bending  to  the 
wind. 

'  Sheila,  tell  me  truly.  I  must  know  everything.  Has 
Fergus  ever  spoken  a  word  of  love  to  you  ?  ' 

'  No,  never,'  Sheila  answered,  with  her  face  still  averted. 
'  But — but  I  know — at  least  I  think — he  would,  if  things  were 
different.' 

'  You  care  for  him,  then,  Sheila?  ' 

'  I  am  afraid  I  do,  Aunt  Ailsa,  very  much,'  Sheila  whispered  ; 
and  the  sweet  colour  flushed  all  her  face  again,  and  she  was 
fain  to  hide  it. 

'Then  there  need  not  be  much  fuss  or  vexation  about  it, 
Sheila,'  said  Lady  Ailsa,  with  a  quiet  smile.  '  Mr  Colquhoun 
need  only  write  a  few  Jiscreet  words  to  our  exile,  then  there 
will  be  the  wedding  chimes  and  the  happy  ending,  and,  I'm 
sure,  very  thankful  will  I  be  to  get  you  off  my  hands.  You 
don't  know  what  a  responsibility  and  care  you  are  to  me.' 

But  still  Sheila  only  shook  her  head. 

'I  suppose  he  must  be  told?'  she  said  at  length,  in  a  low, 
doubtful  voice. 

'  In  the  interests  of  justice,  if  of  nothing  else,  he  must,' 
Lady  Ailsa  answered  significantly. 

'And  what  do  you  suppose  he  will  do?  ' 


A  MAIDEN'S  HEART.  357 

'  Take  passage  home  in  the  next  steamer,  if  he  is  in  his  right 
mind.' 

'  If  I  thought  he  would  do  that,  Aunt  Ailsa,  I  would  go 
away  somewhere,  and  hide  myself  for  ever ! '  said  Sheila  passion- 
ately. '  It  is  a  shame !  It  is  just  a  bribe.  I  suppose  few 
could  resist  it.  Do  you  think  Fergus  could?  ' 

'  Sheila,  I  do  not  understand  you.  There  is  something  you 
are  keeping  back,'  said  Lady  Ailsa  perplexedly.  '  If  you  care 
for  Fergus,  and  he  cares  for  you ' — 

'  But  I  am  not  sure.  I  only  said  he  might,  if  things  were 
different,'  put  in  Sheila, 

4  And  he  cares  for  you,'  repeated  Aunt  Ailsa  steadily, 
'  there  need  be  no  fuss  about  it.  As  I  said  before,  this  is 
not  a  time  to  allow  foolish  scruples  to  stand  hi  the 
way.  If  you  do,  the  happiness  of  both  your  lives  may  be 
lost.' 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Then  Sheila  rose  to  her  feet, 
and  gathered  the  skirt  of  her  habit  in  her  hand.  Her  face  was 
quite  pale  and  grave  again.  Her  aunt  thought  she  looked 
old  beyond  her  years. 

'The  case,  as  we  understand  it,  stands  thus,  then,  Aunt 
Ailsa,' she  said  quietly.  'I 'am  in  possession  of  Dalmore,  but 
if  Fergus  Macleod  should  wish  to  marry  me,  it  is  his.  If  I 
should  not  wish  to  marry  him,  I  may  still  remain  in  possession, 
and  enjoy  myself  as  well  as  a  usurper  can.  The  only  thing, 
then,  to  satisfy  justice  will  be  to  offer  myself  and  Dalmore  to 
Fergus  Macleod,  and  await  the  result, — a  very  nice,  enjoyable 
condition  of  mind  to  be  in.  I  can  amuse  myself  during  the 
next  few  weeks  in  trying  to  anticipate  his  decision.  Aunt 
Ailsa,  don't  look  at  me  so  strangely.  I  am  not  very  wretched, 
only  it  is  so  funny  and  dreary  to  be  as  I  am.' 

She  drew  herself  up  with  a  slight  defiance,  and  pushed  back 
her  bright  hair  from  her  brow  with  a  quick,  nervous  touch. 
Lady  Ailsa's  whole  heart  ached  for  the  child,  and  yet  she  saw 
that  uttered  sympathy  at  that  moment  would  break  her 
down. 

'  Suppose  we  look  at  it  from  the  ludicrous  side,  Sheila, — and  it 
is  very  ludicrous,  the  way  poor  Dalmore  has  been  tossed  about,' 


358  SHEJLA. 

she  said,  with  a  smile.  '  You  are  going  to  have  a  very  original 
love  affair,  my  dear.' 

'  Not  original  at  all, — perfectly  horrid  !'  cried  Sin  ila,  with  a 
little  passionate  stamp  of  her  foot.  '  Never  was  girl  tried  as  I 
am.  I  have  a  good  mind  to  marry  Ian  or  Alastair,  if  he  will 
have  me.' 

'  Alastair  won't,  my  dear.  There  is  only  one  man  in  the 
world  for  you,  and  you  know  it.  Are  you  going  to  leave  this 
in  my  hands,  then,  Sheila?  ' 

'  No ;  Mr.  Colquhoun  lias  seen  the  will,  of  course,  and  he  is 
waiting  my  instructions.  I  will  write  to  him  to-night,  and  then, 
I  suppose,  I  must  just  wait.  Good-bye,  auntie  ;  forgive  me  for 
troubling  you.  No,  don't  ask  me  to  stay,  nor  be  kind  to  me  at 
all.  Just  let  me  go  away  and  fight  out  my  own  battle.  It  will 
all  come  right  in  the  end.  Good-bye.' 

A  hasty  kiss,  and  the  child  was  gone  before  her  aunt  could 
detain  her.  It  had  not  been  a  satisfactory  interview,  and  Lady 
Ailsa  was  left  convinced  in  her  own  mind  that  there  was  some- 
thing between  Fergus  and  Sheila  she  did  not  understand. 

Next  day  Mr.  Colquhoun  received  his  instructions,  and  a 
letter  was  sent  to  Fergus  Macleod.  It  contained  no  superfluous 
writing,  nothing  but  the  lawyer's  notiM  ation  that  the  copy  of 
his  uncle's  last  will  was  endorsed.  Then  Sheila  sat  down  to 
wait,  and  what  that  waiting  meant  for  her  no  human  being  ever 
knew  but  Fergus,  to  whom  she  spoke  of  it  reluctantly,  in  the 
happy  after-time.  This  was  a  test  for  Fergus.  It  was  to  prove 
to  Sheila  what  was  really  in  him, — what  depth  and  earnestness  of 
purpose  possessed  the  young  man's  soul.  She  was  torn  between 
two  hopes,  two  desires.  Love  hoped  that  the  message  would 
bring  the  wanderer  across  the  sea ;  but  something  else,  the 
nobler  side  of  her  character  as  a  woman,  hoped  that  it  would 
be — not  yet.  She  prayed  that  he  might  be  guided,  that  he 
would  show  himself  as  noble  as  the  ideal  to  which  Sheila  hoped 
he  would  yet  attain.  It  was  a  time  of  curious,  searching  trial 
for  the  girl;  it  brought  her  very  near  that  Heaven  from  which 
her  strength  came.  Discipline  was  making  a  very  perfect  and 
exquisite  character  out  of  Sheila  Macdonald.  During  the 
interval  Lady  Ailsa  saw  her  frequently,  but  the  subject  was  not 


A  MAIDEN'S  HEART.  359 

again  mentioned  between  them.  Lady  Ailsa  was  scarcely  less 
anxious  about  the  result  than  Sheila  herself.  It  was  the  middle 
of  June  before  Fergus  Macleod's  letter  came  to  Dalmore.  It 
was  brought  to  Sheila  in  the  drawing-room  one  sunny  morn, 
and  the  servant  saw  her  hand  tremble  when  she  saw  the  thin 
foreign  envelope  lying  on  the  salver.  She  sat  with  it  in  her 
hand  for  a  few  minutes  "before  she  opened  it.  Her  face  was 
pale,  her  eyes  troubled  and  heavy,  her  heart  beating  wildly. 
The  words  written  within  might  mean  so  much  or  so  little.  At 
length  she  broke  the  seal,  and  these  were  the  words  she  read: — 


•SUNSHINE  HILL,  FKKOUS  CREEK,  ONTARIO, 
May  Z\st,  18— 

'Mr  DEAR  SHEILA, — Ireceived  Mr.  Colquhoun's  letter  yesterday. 
I  have  already  written  to  him.  You  will  allow  me,  I  know, 
to  say  a  few  words  to  you  ;  although  I  have  a  feeling  that  it  is 
a  breach  of  my  vow  to  address  you  so  soon.  It  will  be  the  last 
time,  until,  as  I  said,  I  can  come  and  stand  without  shame  in 
your  presence.  I  think  that  hour  will  come  some  day.  But 
for  that  hope  and  that  resolve  life  would  be  very  hard  for  me. 
You  know  as  well  as  I  can  tell  you,  that  I  regret  that  the  will 
should  ever  have  been  written,  or  when  written  found.  It  is 
not  a  just  will ;  it  might  make  a  great  deal  of  misery.  As  it  is, 
I  pray  it  may  make  no  difference  to  you.  You  know,  Sheila, 
without  me  telling  you,  what  is  the  hope  in  my  heart.  You 
know  that  the  world  does  not  hold  for  me  anything  so  precious 
as  you.  Dare  I  tell  you  this,  Sheila,  with  the  memory  of  the 
last  night  of  the  year  before  me?  I  dare,  because  I  must  now. 
But  I  will  not  come  back  to  tell  you  this  in  words  until  I  have 
redeemed  the  past — until  I  have  made  myself  worthier.  I  shall 
never  be  wholly  worthy.  If,  when  that  time  comes,  Sheila,  you 
can  trust  me  for  all  time,  God  knows  what  it  will  be  for  me. 
But  if  not,  or  if  in  the  interval  of  waiting  you  should  see  some 
one  to  whom  you  could  give  the  trust  I  would  ask,  I  will  try 
not  to  be  cast  down.  It  has  been  a  blessing  to  me  that  I  ever 
knew  you.  As  to  the  will,  and  the  disposing  of  Dalmore,  I 
refuse  to  have  anything  to  do  with  it.  In  the  meantime,  I  hope 


360  SHEILA. 

you  will  continue  to  be  the  blessing  of  the  place.  It  has  no 
interest  for  me  now,  except  in  so  far  as  it  concerns  you.  I  ask 
you  to  forgive  me  if  I  have  said  too  much.  I  could  not  have 
said  less,  I  think,  and  made  you  understand.  We  are  settled 
here  on  our  own  farm.  My  mother  is  happy,  and  the  future  is 
bright  with  promise.  She  knows  all  that  is  in  my  heart.  I 
love  my  mother  next  to  you.  Strange  that  I  should  presume 
to  write  of  love  to  you,  but  distance  and  circumstances  are 
accountable  for  unexpected  actions.  I  shall  trespass  no  more 
till  the  time  comes  when  I  can  stand  an  equal  before  you,  and, 
if  you  are  free,  ask  for  your  love.  Give  me  your  prayers, 
Sheila,  and  sometimes  a  thought.  All  my  life  and  hopes  and 
aims  are  bound  up  in  you.  I  must  lay  down  my  pen.  I  could 
say  so  much  more.  It  is  not  easy  to  stop.  May  God  bless  and 
take  care  of  you,  Sheila  1  I  say  it  in  deep  reverence. — And  I  am, 
while  I  live,  yours  devotedly, 

*  FERGUS  MACLEOD.' 

The  June  sun  lay  bright  and  golden  on  the  bent  head,  on  the 
sweet,  downcast  face,  radiant  with  the  sunshine  of  love.  A  load 
was  lifted  from  off  the  child's  shoulders ;  her  heart  Avas  filled 
with  that  deep,  unutterable  gladness  which  comes  only  once. 
By  and  by,  Fergus  had  his  answer.  It  was  very  short,  but  it 
sufficed  : — 

'  DEAR  FERGUS, — You  will  find  me  waiting  when  you  come. 

4  SHEILA.' 
And  BO  the  probation  began. 


sfR^iry 


CHAPTER  XLH. 

*A   JUDEECIOUS    FRICHT.1 

The  dear  old  places — 

So  lull  of  memories  for  you  and  me  ( 

J.  B.  SELKIRK 

letters  passed  between  these  young  people  during 
their  probation.  They  were  very  loyal.  Old  Time 
was  to  work  his  will  with  them,  but  whatever 
change  he  might  make  in  other  places  or  in  other 
hearts,  his  flight  would  find  them  the  same.  But  they  were 
not  absolutely  without  news  of  each  other,  for  Alastair  and 
Fergus  kept  up  a  kind  of  desultory  correspondence,  and 
so  there  was  a  bond  kept  between  the  old  world  and  the 
new.  Fergus  was  making  his  way  steadily,  and  prospering, 
Alastair  could  make  out  from  his  letters,  though  there  was 
nothing  of  the  spirit  of  boasting  in  them.  He  was  farming  at 
Sunshine  Hill  on  the  most  approved  principles,  and  had,  indeed, 
inaugurated  a  new  agricultural  era  in  the  district.  He  had  not 
only  raised  the  good  land  on  his  farm  to  the  highest  pitch  of 
cultivation,  but  by  degrees  had  redeemed  the  swamps  by  drain- 
age, and  so  added  considerably  to  his  estate.  He  threw  himself 
heart  and  soul  into  his  work,  and,  having  a  quick  perception, 
shrewd  foresightedness,  and  promptness  of  action,  he  bade  fair 
to  become  a  rich  and  successful  man.  He  began  to  turn  his 
attention  to  stock-raising,  and  had  some  of  the  best  blood  sent 


362  SHEILA. 

out  to  him,  which  opened  up  a  new  and  fine  field  of  enterprise. 
These  things,  of  course,  did  not  become  accomplished  facts  all 
at  once ;  they  were  the  growth  of  years.  And  here,  perhaps, 
Fergus  erred  a  little  iu  his  high-mindedness  and  independent 
resolve.  In  his  consuming  anxiety  to  do  well,  and  to  Lave 
something  worthy  to  show  as  the  result  of  the  years,  he  forgot 
what  the  waiting  might  be  for  Sheila.  His  life  was  full  of 
interest,  of  engrossing  work  and  occupation;  hers  was  empty, 
and,  in  a  sense,  purposeless,  and  the  time  seemed  to  her  fear- 
fully long.  Sometimes  the  child  grew  sick  of  hope  deferred. 
Dalmore  was  no  longer  a  source  of  unceasing  anxiety  and  care. 
Angus  M'Bean  the  younger  was  such  a  true,  kind,  and  faithful 
steward,  that  there  was  no  longer  any  need  for  the  mistress's 
constant  supervision.  The  relations  between  Dalmore  arid  the 
Glen  were  of  the  most  delightful  description.  So,  in  a  sense, 
Sheila's  life  became  purposeless,  and  Aunt  Ailsa  was  not  at 
times  without  deep  anxiety  about  her.  The  child  seemed  to 
be  standing  still.  It  was  as  if  the  development  of  her  character 
had  been  arrested, — as  if  she  had  lost  hold  of  the  purpose  of  life. 
She  stayed  a  great  deal  at  Murrayshaugh,  and  generally 
wintered  abroad  with  her  aunt  and  uncle.  Sir  Douglas  was  in 
poor  health,  and  the  third  winter  after  Fergus  went  away,  he 
died  at  San  Remo,  and  Alastair  became  Laird  of  Murrayshaugh. 
The  happy,  merry  household  was  becoming  sadly  thinned.  The 
lads  were  scattered, — one  at  Woolwich,  one  at  Harrow,  and  one 
studying  in  Edinburgh.  The  other  two  were  still  at  Glen- 
alrnond,  though  Gordon,  the  younger,  was  showing  signs  of 
restlessness,  and  threatened  to  emigrate  to  Canada  after  Fergus 
Macleod.  Sir  Alastair  bore  his  honours  meekly ;  there  was  no 
fear  of  his  popularity  among  the  folk.  He  was  dear  to  young 
and  old,  gentle  and  simple  alike.  He  was  engaged  to  be 
married  to  one  of  the  bright  English  cousins  who  had  been 
one  of  Sheila's  companions  for  a  year  at  school,  and  Lady  Ailsa 
was  looking  forward  to  abdicating  in  her  favour.  She  had 
many  a  laugh  about  it,  dear  kind  heart  1  she  was  thoroughly 
happy  over  it,  and  would  make  a  snug  home  for  herself  and  the 
younger  boys  not  too  far  away.  And  thus  matters  stood  five 
years  after  Fergus  went  away.  At  Easter,  young  Gordon 


•  A  JUDRE  clo  us  FRJCHT:  363 

rebelled  altogether  at  going  back  to  Glenalmond ;  and,  after  a 
long  talk  with  his  mother,  Sir  Alastair  decided  lo  take  a  trip  to 
Canada  himself,  in  order  to  see  what  prospect  there  was  in  the 
new  country  for  his  young  brother.  He  h;id  another  errand, 
too,  which  was  spoken  of  but  briefly  between  his  mother  and 
himself. 

'  And  you  can  see  for  yourself  what  Feruus  Macleod  is  doing 
out  there.'  Lady  Ailsa  said.  '  I  am  rather  doubtful  about  him 
myself,  Alastair.  It  is  unlike  a  young  man  to  wait  so  long  and 
make  no  sign.  It  makes  rne  sore  to  look  at  Sheila.  And  to 
think  Avhat  matches  she  could  have  made  in  the  interval !  But 
for  that  young  renegade  we  would  have  seen  our  Sheila  with  a 
coronet  on  her  brow.' 

'  Which  would  have  been  irksome  to  her,  mother,  unless 
Macleod  had  put  it  on,'  laughed  Alastair.  '  I  confess  I  don't 
share  your  fears  about  Fergus.  He's  a  fearsome,  determined 
chap  when  he  likes,  and  I  can  understand  just  how  he  feels. 
But  I  confess  I  think  Sheila  is  wearying.' 

'If  you  tell  him  that,  or  even  hint  at  it,  Alastair,  you  stupid 
boy!  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  to  you.' 

'Oh,  mother,  what  do  you  take  me  for?  Am  I  going  to 
make  our  Sheila  cheap  to  anybody?'  queried  Alastair,  in  his 
boyish  way.  'No,  no;  trust  me,  I'll  only  give  Fergus  a 
"  judercious  fricht,''  and  won't  I  enjoy  it?' 

Lady  Ailsa  smiled  then.  She  could  trust  her  big  honest  son 
with  Sheila's  interests,  so  there  was  no  more  said.  Sheila's  face 
flushed  all  over,  and  the  tears  sprang  in  her  eyes,  when  Alastair 
rode  up  to  Dalmore  to  tell  his  errand  and  say  good-bye. 
Having  made  up  his  mind,  he  took  out  his  passage  at  once,  and 
everybody  was  astonished  to  hear  of  his  sudden  resolve.  Sheila 
had  been  in  the  south  country,  spending  Easter  with  a  friend, 
and  so  had  heard  nothing  of  it  ur.til  Alastair  came  to  say  good- 
bye. He  talked  a  great  deal  about  exploring  the  country  and 
its  prospects  for  the  sake  of  Gordon,  and  only  said,  as  he  shook 
hands  at  the  door, — 

'  I'll  likely  see  Macleod,  Sheila,  if  I  am  in  his  neighbourhood. 
Have  you  any  message  ?  ' 

But  Sheila  answered  quite  quietly,  and,  Alastair  thought,  with 


364  SHEILA. 

;\  touch  of  coldness,  '  No,  I  have  no  message.  Don't  stay 
away  too  long,  Alastair,  or  Aunt  Ailsa  and  I  will  be  miserable.' 

There  was  a  lump  in  Alastair's  throat  as  he  looked  at  the 
sweet,  pale  young  thing  in  her  black  frock,  and  he  mentally 
resolved  to  make  the  '  judeecious  fricht '  as  rousing  as  possible. 
So  he  kissed  his  cousin,  and  went  his  way.  He  sent  no  warning 
of  his  coming  to  the  friends  over  the  sea ;  but,  in  spite  of  his 
careless,  indifferent  words  to  Sheila,  he  made  straight  as  an 
arrow  from  New  York  to  Ontario,  and  to  the  nearest  station  for 
Sunshine  Hill.  The  railway  had  been  extended  since  Fergus 
went,  and  the  nearest  station  was  now  within  eight  miles  of  the 
farm.  Alastair  was  amazed  to  find  that  there  was  not  a  horse 
or  conveyance  of  any  kind  to  be  obtained  for  love  or  money  at 
the  station.  But  what  was  eight  miles  to  him,  accustomed  as 
he  was  to  doing  his  fifteen  or  twenty  over  hill  and  moor  at 
home  ?  So,  after  getting  directions  for  Sunshine  Hill,  he  left 
his  luggage,  and  started  off.  It  was  a  very  warm  afternoon. 
Summer  had  rushed  on  apace  after  a  tardy  spring,  and  all 
vegetation  was  in  an  advanced  state.  The"  road  was  terribly 
dusty.  Alastair  sunk  to  the  ankles  at  every  foot,  and  before  he 
had  gone  two  miles  began  to  feel  out  of  sorts.  He  had  rather 
admired  the  country  as  he  came  along.  The  grass  had  not  yet 
been  burned  up  by  the  intense  heat,  and  all  the  peach  and  apple 
orchards  were  in  bloom.  But,  as  he  laboured  along  the  dusty 
road,  with  the  hot,  strong  sun  beating  upon  him,  and  nothing 
to  relieve  the  glare,  he  muttered  something  under  his  breath 
which  sounded  uncommonly  like  '  Beastly  country!'  Tired  out  at 
length,  he  sat  down  on  the  fence,  and  got  a  cigar  with  which  to 
solace  himself.  '  Believe  I'll  sit  here  till  sundown,'  he  said  com- 
placently, his  irritation  disappearing  under  the  genial  influence 
of  his  cigar.  '  Hulloa  !  here's  something  coming.  If  it's  a  gig, 
or  even  a  cart,  I'm  in  luck.'  It  was  a  buggy,  which  to  Alastair 
seemed  a  curious-looking  affair;  but  the  horse  was  a  smart 
trotter,  and  the  driver  a  pleasant-looking  elderly  man,  evidently 
a  farmer.  He  drew  rein  as  a  matter  of  course  when  he 
approached  the  stranger. 

4  Good-day.     Going  far,  eh  ?  ' 

4  To  a  place  called  Sunshine  Hill.     Do  you  know  it  ?  ' 


•  A  JUDEECIO  us  FRIGHT:  365 

'  Of  course  I  do  ;  I'm  going  within  half  a  mile  of  it.  Get  in. 
Warmish  day.' 

'  Rather ;  thank  you,  I'm  in  luck,'  said  Alastair,  as  he  jumped 
into  the  comfortable  seat  by  the  driver's  side.  The  leather 
cover  was  up,  and  it  was  delicious  to  be  sheltered  from  the 
glaring  sun. 

*  Stranger  here,  I  see,'  said  the  driver  very  freely. 

'Yes,  just  come  over.' 

'  From  the  old  country  ?  Thought  so.  Any  relation  of  Mr. 
Macleod's  ? ' 

'  Only  a  friend.  Do  you  know  him  ?  '  asked  Alastair  inter- 
estedly, for  here  was  a  fine  chance  of  hearing  some  independent 
testimony  about  his  friend. 

'  Know  him?  We  all  do.  He's  one  of  our  prominent  men. 
He's  in  everything — everything  good,  I  mean.  He's  a  tip-top 
fellow,  and  the  best  farmer  I  ever  see'd.  I've  been  in  the  farm- 
ing line  myself  for  forty  years,  but  he's  learned  me  a  thing 
or  two.' 

1  Has  he  really  ?     He  is  a  successful  man,  then? ' 

'  He's  a  genius.  I'll  tell  you  what.  They  don't  think  much 
of  the  old  country  gentry  here,  but  he's  thrown  them  all  off 
their  calculations.  It  takes  a  man  with  all  his  senses  about  him 
to  serve  Mr.  Macleod.' 

'Is  he  so  hard  on  them?' 

'  Oh,  bless  me  !  no ;  but  he  knows  everything,  and  he  won't 
let  a  slovenly  bit  of  work  slip.  I  don't  want  no  better  recom- 
mendation with  a  man  than  that  he  has  served  at  Sunshine  Hill, 
and  my  mistress  will  tell  you  the  same  about  the  hired  girls. 
Mrs.  Macleod's  a  real  lady,  but  she  knows  what's  what.  Come 
out  thinking  to  settle,  eh  ?  Fine  country  this.  Look  at  that 
wheat,  sir.  Did  you  ever  see  its  marrow  ?  This  is  the  kind  of 
weather,  now.  Did  you  ever  see  sunshine  like  this  in  Scotland  ? 
No,  you  never  did.  I'm  from  Scotland  myself ;  out  thirty-three 
year  come  September.  Me  and  the  mistress  was  home  last 
year  for  the  first  time,  and  we  couldn't  bide  for  the  rain.  Do 
you  know  what  I  told  them  at  Carmunnock  afore  I  came  away  ? 
I  just  bade  them  get  Scotland  roofed  in  or  I  cam*  back.  Ha  I 
ha!' 


366  SHEILA. 

The  old  fanner  laughed,  so  did  Alastair.  His  heart  was 
light.  The  news  of  Fergus  was  good. 

'  Ay,  he's  a  fine  chap,  Mr.  Macleod.  He's  foremost  in  all 
that's  good.  They're  going  to  make  him  the  reeve  of  the  town- 
ship next  election.' 

'What's  that?' 

'A  kind  of  general  supervisor  of  all  the  interests  of  the 
district.  He's  young,  but  he's  fit,  very  fit.  See,  yonder's  his 
barn.  You  can't  see  the  house ;  it's  in  the  orchard  at  the  back 
of  the  barn.  We'll  be  there  in  a  crack.  If  you're  going  to 
stay  a  bit  at  the  Hill,  we'll  be  seeing  you  at  our  place.  You're 
gentry,  I  see;  but  we're  a'  ae  kind  here,'  said  the  farmer 
facetiously. 

'  I'll  be  sure  to  come,  thank  you,'  said  Alastair  sincerely. 
'  Am  I  to  get  out  here  ? ' 

'  Ay,  an'  jut  across  the  mangolds.  You'll  see  the  house  when 
you  get  by  the  bush  there.  Good-day.  You'll  never  settle  in 
the  old  country,  sir,  after  ye've  been  here,'  said  the  farmer, 
with  a  laugh.  '  Good-day.' 

Alastair  lifted  his  cap,  and  vaulted  the  primitive-looking 
snake-fence  at  a  bound.  The  old  man  had  put  him  in  the  best 
of  humours,  and  he  was  full  of  delightful  anticipation  of  his 
meeting  with  Fergus.  It  was  nearly  six  o'clock  now,  and  the 
sun,  veering  westward,  had  lost  the  fierceness  of  his  heat. 
Shadows  were  creeping  over  the  bush,  and  long,  slanting  yellow 
lines  of  light  lay  athwart  the  shingled  roof  of  the  barn. 
Alastair  could  see  it  quite  well,  as  his  long  legs  took  him  quickly 
over  the  dry  furrows  between  the  green  bushy  mangold  tops. 
There  were  some  cows  wandering  about  the  yard,  lazily  whisking 
their  tails,  and  a  lamb,  with  a  tinkling  bell  on  its  neck,  trotting 
about,  nibbling  the  green  grass  near  the  fence.  It  was  a  peace- 
ful, plentiful  picture ;  and  when  a  few  steps  more  brought  the 
stranger  within  sight  of  the  picturesque  house,  with  its  wide 
verandah  hung  with  green  creepers  and  the  purple  clusters  of 
the  clematis,  and  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  the  wealth  of  the 
apple  bloom,  he  stood  still  for  a  moment,  and  said  aloud, — 

1  By  Jove  1  not  bad  for  the  backwoods.  It's  a  perfect 
picture.' 


•A  JUDEECIOUS  FRIGHT.1  367 

Presently,  from  out  the  wide-open  doors  of  the  barn  th^re 
came  a  big  stalwart  figure,  in  shirt  sleeves,  and  a  big  straw  hat 
slouching  over  his  shoulders, — Fergus  himself,  in  his  working 
garb,  his  honest  face  as  brown  as  a  russet  apple  with  the  sun. 
He  caught  sight  of  the  trespasser  in  his  mangold  field,  and  put 
up  his  hand  to  his  eyes  to  try  and  make  him  out.  Alastair 
grinned,  and  his  heart  beat  a  little  faster  as  he  quickened  his 
pace.  He  had  a  breadth  of  pasture  to  cross  between  the  man- 
gold field  and  the  yard  fence,  and  as  the  distance  between  him 
arid  the  waiting  figure  lessened,  he  saw  quite  well  a  curious 
change  come  upon  the  face  of  his  old  friend.  At  last  they  were 
within  hail,  and  Alastair's  ringing  voice,  a  trifle  less  steady  than 
usual,  broke  the  drowsy  stillness. 

'Hulloa!  Fergie  lad,  anything  to  say  to  an  old  chum?' 

'  Alastair,  as  I'm  alive  I ' 

The  face  of  Fergus  twitched,  his  firm  under  lip  quivered, 
and  for  a  moment  his  keen  blue  eye  grew  dim.  Then,  in  silence, 
the  two  men  gripped  hands,  and  looked  into  each  other's  eyes. 
It  was  a  moment  of  deep  emotion  for  both,  for  they  had  been 
like  brothers  in  the  old  time. 

Alastair  was  the  first  to  speak. 

'  Never  a  word  of  welcome,  old  chap — eh  ? '  he  said,  with  a 
comical  smile. 

'  Alastair,  you — you  duffer !  not  to  write  ! '  Fergus  managed 
to  say  at  last ;  but  the  light  in  his  face  was  good  to  see. 

'  You're  not  sorry,  then,  to  see  a  kent  face? ' 

'  Sorry  1 '  Fergus's  mouth  twitched  again,  and  he  gripped 
Alastair  by  the  arm,  and  began  to  march  him  towards  the 
house. 

'  When  did  you  come  ?  Where  have  you  come  from  ? 
What  made  you  think  of  coming?  What  do  you  want? 
Did  you  come  to  see  me?'  Fergus  asked  all  those  ques- 
tions in  a  breath,  and  Alastair  answered  them  all  in  his 
own  fashion,  which  made  the  glad  light  deepen  in  his  friend's 
eyes. 

'Shut  upl  I  want  my  tea,  or  dinner,  or  something.  Fm 
famished.  Here's  your  mother.' 

Alastair  took  off  his  hat,  as  Mrs.  Macleod,  attracted  by  the 


368  SHEILA. 

sound  of  voices  through  the  open  door,  came  out  on  the 
verandah. 

4  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Macleod  ?  Any  room  for  a  tramp  ? 
Too  bad,  wasn't  it,  to  steal  a  march  on  you  ?  * 

'  Mr.  Murray — Sir  Alastair,  I  mean  I ' 

Helpless  surprise  sat  on  the  face  of  Ellen  Macleod,  but  in 
a  minute  she  recovered  herself,  and  had  a  welcome  for  the 
stranger  from  over  the  sea  which  did  his  heart  good.  She 
looked  at  Fergus,  and  when  she  saw  the  expression  on  his  face, 
she  knew  what  it  had  been  to  him  to  leave  the  old  land  and  the 
true  friends  there. 

'Is  it  you,  Alastair,  really?'  he  asked  for  the  sixth  time, 
after  they  had  got  into  the  house,  and  the  tempting  odour  of 
the  supper  was  about  them.  '  Don't  vanish  away.  I'm  afraid 
to  lift  my  eyes  off  you,  in  case  I  discover  that  you've  been  an 
optical  illusion.' 

'A  very  substantial  illusion,  u  Mrs.  Macleod  will  find 
presently  when  I  get  at  the  table,'  laughed  Alastair.  '  I  say, 
what  a  fine  place  you  have  here,  and  how  immense  it  is  to  see 
you  1  I  tell  you,  I'm  jolly  glad  I  came.' 

Just  the  same  old  Alastair,  full  of  fun  and  boyish  chaff. 
The  old  university  slang  sounded  like  sweetest  music  in 
the  ears  of  Fergus.  He  dared  not  trust  himself  to  speak, 
somehow. 

'I  tell  you  I'm  a  fool,  Alastair.  I  can't  do  anything  but 
look  at  you.  Mother,  is  not  it  grand  to  see  him  ? ' 

*  It  is  indeed,  my  son,'  Ellen  Macleod  answered ;  and  as  she 
passed  by  Alastair's  chair,  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  broad 
shoulder,  and  smiled  down  upon  him,  and  that  motherly  smile, 
so  unlike  anything  he  had  ever  seen  before  on  the  face  of  Ellen 
Macleod,  completely  upset  Alastair,  and  he  gave  three  cheers 
there  and  then.  And  after  that  the  happy  supper  began,  but 
nobody  ate  except  Alastair,  and  he  spoke  all  the  time  with  his 
mouth  full.  The  face  of  Fergus  was  quite  a  study.  In  his 
wildest  dreams  Alastair  had  never  imagined  the  meeting  would 
be  quite  so  glorious.  In  the  sweet  gloaming  that  evening,  over 
a  pipe  of  peace  and  love  on  the  verandah  chairs,  the  two  friends 
talked  over  everything,  past,  present,  and  future,  until  it 


•  A  JUDEECIO  us  FRIGHT:  s6  9 

quite  dark,  and  the  shy  young  moon  came  up  behind  the  dark 
belt  of  the  bush,  and  the  owls  began  to  hoot  and  the  \-oons  to 
cry  in  the  swamp  away  down  in  the  hollow.  Everything,  I  said  ; 
but  the  name  of  Sheila  was  not  mentioned,  though  the  rninds  of 
both  were  full  of  her,  and  each  knew  it. 

'I  say,  Fergie,'  said  Alastair  at  length,  throwing  himself  back 
in  his  easy-chair,  'when  are  you  coming  over?' 

'  Some  day,'  Fergus  answered. 

'TIow  long  will  some  day  be  of  coming?'  Alastair  asked 
dryly. 

'  I  don't  know  yet.     I  haven't  made  up  my  mind.' 

'  Oh,  well,  if  there  is  nothing  particular  you  want  to  see  about, 
I  daresay  it  doesn't  matter  much,'  Alastair  remarked,  with  a  fine 
indifference,  which  was  yet  full  of  suggestiveness. 

Fergus  caught  at  it  at  once. 

'  There  are  two  or  three  things  I  am  anxious  about,  but  the 
time  has  not  come  yet,'  he  said  rather  hastily. 

'  When  it  comes,  take  care  it  is  not  too  late  for  anything  you 
may  have  set  your  heart  on.' 

Fergus  started,  and  a  look  of  apprehension  crossed  his 
bronzed  face. 

'  Do  you  know  what  I  think,  Fergus  ?  that  you  are  an  ass,  and 
richly  deserve  to  be  told  it,'  was  Alastair's  next  characteristic 
remark. 

•What  for?' 

'  Most  things,  but  one  particularly.  I'll  tell  you  what,  if  you 
don't  look  up  Dalmore  before  long,  I  wouldn't  give  a  fig  for 
your  chance.' 

'  What  do  you  mean  ? ' 

'  What  I  say.  No,  I  have  no  more  information  to  give.  I've 
thrown  out  the  hint.  Maybe  I  came  expressly  to  give  it. 
You're  an  ass,  Fergie,  because  you're  throwing  away — well,  the 
sweetest,  jolliest  girl  in  the  world,  and  I  only  wish  I  had  the 
chance.  There !  it's  out  now.  I  say,  Mrs.  Macleod,  when  do 
you  lock  up— eh?  Isn't  it  nearly  ten?  I  feel  uncommonly 
sleepy  * 

Alastair  rose  lazily,  and  sauntered  through  the  open  door  into 
the  parlour.  He  looked  back  with  a  grin  after  Fergus,  who 
24 


37° 


SHEILA. 


took  the  three  verandah  steps  at  a  bound,  and  disappeared 
among  the  apple  trees.  Then  Alastair  sat  down  beside  Mrs. 
Macleod,  and  had  a  long,  delightful  chat  with  her.  But  he  saw 
Fergus  no  more  that  night. 

The  'judeecious  fricht'  had  takeu  due  effect 


CHAPTER  XLm. 
LOVE'S  CROWN. 


They  were  blest  beyond  compare, 

When  they  held  their  trysting  there, 

Among  the  greenest  hills  shone  on  by  the  snn. 

SHAIRPE. 


OB  MACNAUGHTON,  the  stocking- weaver,  was 
lying  ill  in  his  bed  at  Achnafauld.  The  rheumatics 
were  not  improving  with  age  ;  for  months  now  the 
loom  had  been  silent  in  the  shop,  and  Rob  seldom 
able  to  move  farther  than  between  the  bed  and  the  fire.  But 
the  brain  was  still  busy,  and  his  '  sangs'  were  the  delight  of  the 
mistress  of  Dalmore.  He  had  a  new  one  every  time  she  came 
to  see  him.  And  that  was  very  often ;  for  Sheila,  as  of  yore, 
was  ever  to  be  found  where  her  gentle  presence  and  her  bene- 
ficent hand  could  be  of  any  service  to  others  less  blessed  than 
herself.  Rob's  worship  of  her  was  a  very  perfect  kind  of  thing, 
though  it  did  not  find  expression  in  a  multitude  of  words.  She 
was  so  absolutely  free  and  at  home  with  him,  and  he  with  her, 
there  was  no  subject  under  the  sun  they  did  not  discuss.  Rob 
Macnaughton  knew  more  of  the  inner  heart  of  the  young  Lndy 
of  Dalmore  than  any  other  human  being.  They  talked  often  of 
the  exile  who  lived  in  the  hearts  of  both ;  and  Rob  was  fain, 
fain  to  look  upon  his  face  and  touch  his  hand  again.  He  had 
sometimes  thoughts  of  writing  to  him,  and  would  have  done  i* 


372  SHEILA. 

had  the  rheumatic  hand  permitted;  but  though  it  was  very 
pleasant  to  have  Sheila  write  out  his  songs  for  him,  he  could 
not  have  asked  her  to  put  on  paper  what  was  in  his  heart  for 
Fergus.  It  too  nearly  concerned  her.  Rob  had  a  keen  per- 
ception. He  knew  the  curious,  tender  thrill  of  the  sweet  young 
voice  when  they  spoke  of  Fergus,  and  it  grieved  his  heart  to  see 
the  wistfulness  creep  to  her  bright  eye,  that  far-away  look 
which  told  of  the  hunger  of  the  he:irt.  He  was  sore  puzzled  to 
understand  what  still  kept  the  bairns  apart,  especially  as  Fergus 
was  doing  well  and  making  money  in  America.  But,  of  course, 
that  was  never  spoken  of.  Rob  could  only  wait  and  hope  for 
the  fulfilment  of  the  greatest  desire  of  his  heart,  to  see  Fergus 
Macleod  and  Sheila  man  and  wife  in  Dalmore.  He  was  greatly 
interested,  of  course,  to  hear  of  Sir  Alastair  Murray's  trip  to 
America,  and  to  know  that  he  had  met  with  all  the  Glenquaich 
folks,  and  found  them  in  such  prosperous  circumstances. 
Alastair  was  making  quite  a  tour  of  the  new  world ;  he  had 
found  his  Canadian  welcome  so  sweet  that  he  had  made  quite  a 
visitation  at  Sunshine  Hill.  But  September  found  him  making 
tracks  for  home  again,  and  Sheila  came  along  to  the  Fauld  in 
the  lovely  gloaming  one  night  to  tell  Rob  his  ship  had  arrived 
at  Liverpool,  and  that  he  would  be  home  next  day  at  the 
l.i  test 

'  Til  bring  him  along  when  he  comes  up,  Rob,'  she  said,  '  and 
you  can  ask  him  everything  you  can  think  of.  Won't  that  be 
far  better  than  my  telling?' 

'  I'll  can  speer  mair  particular,  maybe,'  Rob  admitted.  '  D'ye 
think  he'll  be  lang  o'  comin'? ' 

'No.  I  am  going  down  to  Murrayshaugh  in  the  morning. 
I  may  stay  till  Saturday,  and  I'll  make  my  cousin  bring  me  up 
early  in  the  day,  and  after  lunch  we'll  come  along.  Will  that 
do,  Rob?' 

'  Ay,  brawly.  Ye'll  be  as  fain  as  I  am,  likely,  to  hear  the 
news.  But  it  will  be  guid  news,  of  that  I  am  sure.' 

'Oh,  S"  am  I.  U'on't  it  be  pleasant  to  hear  him  tell  what 
he  actually  saw?  It  is  so  different  seeing  the  way  of  life  there, 
so  much  more  satisfactory  than  hearing  about  it. 

A  slight  tremble  shook  the  sweet  young  voice,  and  Rob  knew 


LOVE'S  CROWN.  373 

that  her  heart  was  sore.  Old,  rugged,  eccentric  though  he  was, 
ihe  secret  of  that  maidenly  heart  was  not  hid  from  the  stocking- 
weaver,  and  lie  felt  a  great  rebelling  for  his  bairn.  '  Well,  I 
must  go,  Rob,  and  ask  for  wee  Nellie  at  the  smith's,'  said 
Sheila.  'Nine  bairns,  Rob  I  What  would  Donald  and  Mary 
say  if  they  saw  so  many  crowded  into  their  old  house?  Mary 
would  call  it  a  "  potch,"  wouldn't  she?'  Sheila  laughed,  and 
Rob's  eye  twinkled. 

'  Are  ye  ridin',  my  wee  leddy  ? '  he  asked. 

'  Yes  ;  don't  you  know  my  habit  yet,  Rob?' 

'  Maybe ;  I  ken  it  gars  ye  look  bonnie.  Ye  are  like  the 
Straightest  birk  in  Shian  woods,'  said  the  stocking-weaver, 
looking  admiringly  at  the  slim  yet,  stately  young  figure.  Sheila 
laughed  again.  Her  heart  had  grown  lighter.  She  felt 
happier  than  she  had  done  for  some  months,  perhaps  because 
news  of  the  exiles  were  so  near  at  hand. 

'  Oh,  Eob  I  you  make  me  quite  ashamed.  Good-night  now  ; 
mind  and  take  this  before  you  go  to  bed.  See,  I  will  just 
make  it  all  ready  for  you.' 

She  lifted  the  lid  of  the  little  basket,  which  Rob  sometimes 
said  could  find  its  own  way  to  the  Fauld,  and  took  out  a  dainty 
little  pudding,  and  a  bottle  of  cream,  which  she  poured  into  >> 
cup,  and  set  it  all  ready  for  Rob,  with  the  spoon  and  the  plate 
lying  to  his  hand.  Had  she  no  prevision,  I  wonder,  of  the 
eyes  which  watched  her  through  the  little  window,  watched  her 
with  a  passionate  light  of  love  in  them  which  might  have 
stirred  her  heart?  With  a  kind  good-night,  at  last  she  gathered 
up  her  habit  and  stepped  out  of  the  house.  The  gloaming  had 
merged  into  darkness,  but  there  was  a  big  red  moon  lying 
behind  the  hill,  the  moon  the  reapers  love.  Sheila's  pony  was 
browsing  quietly  at  the  burn-side.  She  took  the  bridle  loosely 
over  her  arm,  and,  stepping  across  to  the  smith's  door,  asked  for 
the  ailing  baby.  Then,  from  out  the  shadows  of  Rob's  corner,  a 
tall  figure  stepped  with  one  hasty  stride  and  entered  the 
stocking-weaver's  door.  Rob  looked  up  at  the  hasty  intrusion, 
ind  somehow,  when  his  eye  fell  on  the  familiar  and  dearly -loved 
face,  he  was  not  conscious  of  the  surprise  so  unexpected  au 
apparition  might  have  caused. 


374  SHEILA. 

1  Is't  you,  lad,  or  a  wraith  sent  to  warn  me  o*  my  end  or 
yours?'  he  asked,  leaning  heavily  on  his  elbow  out  of  the 
bed. 

'It's  me,  Rob,  come  back,'  said  the  unmistakeable  tones  of 
Fergus  Macleod's  own  voice.  'Just  one  grip,  man,  and  I'm 
away.  You  know  where.' 

'  She's  in  the  smith's,  sir,'  Rob  answered ;  and  though  Fergus's 
iron  grip  nearly  brought  the  tears  to  his  eyes  with  the  pain  of 
his  maimed  hand,  he  never  uttered  a  groan. 

'I  know.  Wish  me  good  luck,  Rob,  and  let  me  off.  Ill  be 
here  again  to-morrow.' 

So  saying,  Fergus  wrung  his  hand  again,  and  disappeared  as 
quickly  as  he  had  come.  Then  Rob  lay  back  in  his  bed,  and 
wiped  the  sweat-drops  from  his  brow.  He  was  wildly  excited, 
and  made  a  new  song  before  he  slept, — a  song,  he  always  said, 
which  was  the  masterpiece  of  his  life. 

The  pony  was  standing  by  the  smith's  open  door,  so  Fergus 
went  round  by  the  end  of  Rob's  house  and  out  on  the  road. 
He  did  not  know  very  well  what  to  do.  To  speak  to  Sheila 
suddenly,  or  even  to  let  him  see  her  on  the  road,  might  startle 
her.  He  felt  quite  at  a  loss  how  to  proceed.  But  speak  with 
her  that  very  night,  that  hour  if  possible,  he  must.  He  had 
endured  the  keenest  torture  waiting  till  Alastair  should  be 
ready  to  accompany  him  home.  Alastair  would  not  hurry 
himself  for  anybody,  least  of  all  for  Fergus,  and  told  him 
plainly  he  need  not  be  so  desperately  impatient  after  he  had 
waited  philosophically  so  long,  when  nobody  asked  or  wanted 
him  to  wait  at  all.  There  was  truth  in  what  Alastair  said, — he 
had  indeed  teased  his  old  chum  unmercifully  on  the  voyage. 
Fergus  took  everything  in  such  terrible  earnest,  it  amused 
Alastair  intensely. 

Presently,  the  short,  sharp  click  of  hoofs  gave  warning  of 
Sheila's  approach.  Fergus  looked  helplessly  round.  There 
was  no  escape,  unless  he  stepped  the  drystone  dyke  and  hid 
himself  behind  it.  So  he  just  walked  on  rather  stupidly  in  the 
middle  of  the  white  road  until  the  pony  came  up. 

'  Fine  evening,'  Sheila  said,  in  her  quick,  pleasant  way.  '  Is 
that  you,  Peter  Fraser  ? ' 


LOVE'S  CROWN.  375 

Then  Fergus  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  and  Sheila 
drew  rein  sharply,  and  her  face  became  very  white  in  the 
moonlight. 

'  Don't  be  afraid,  Sheila ;  it  is  I,  Fergus  Macleod.  I  came 
home  with  Alastair  this  afternoon,  and  when  I  went  to  Dalmore 
they  told  me  you  were  at  the  Fauld,  so  I  came.' 

'Oh!' 

Sheila's  breath  came  in  a  quick,  short  gasp ;  and  Fergus  saw 
her  tremble.  H;id  he  dared,  he  would  have  put  a  strong  right 
arm  about  the  dear  figure,  but  not  yet.  He  did  not  know, 
indeed,  whether  he  would  ever  have  the  right  to  do  that. 
Alastair  had  succeeded  in  frightening  him  in  earnest,  for  he  had 
never  given  him  the  smallest  satisfaction  about  Sheila,  except 
to  reiterate  his  assurance  that  he  had  better  look  after  his 
chance. 

'  Have  yon  nothing  to  nay  to  me,  Sheila  ? '  Fergus  asked 
at  length,  when  the  deep  silence  became  intolerable.  Sheila's 
face  was  bent  very  low  over  Rob  Roy's  shaggy  neck,  and 
her  lips  were  silent.  Oh,  how  sweet  the  perfect  curve  of 
neck  and  cheek  and  brow  seemed  to  Fergus,  standing  by  her 
side. 

'  Of  course  I  am  glad,  Fergus,'  she  said  at  last,  and  raised 
her  head.  Her  smile  was  radiant,  and  she  gave  him  her  two 
hands,  and  he  bent  down  and  kissed  them.  Then  he  took  Rob 
Roy's  bridle  over  his  arm,  and  began  to  walk  by  the  pony's  side, 
with  his  hand  touching  Sheila's  habit,  and  for  a  little  time  there 
was  nothing  more  said. 

'Shall  we  go  the  old  road,  Sheila?  it  is  quieter,'  asked 
Fergus,  when  they  came  to  the  turn  of  the  Corrymucklocl  i 
road.  Sheila  nodded,  and  they  went  on  in  silence  again, — a 
silence  which  was  golden.  All  the  passionate  speeches  which 
had  been  so  near  the  lips  of  Fergus  wlien  the  ocean  rolled 
between,  were  swept  away  by  the  deep  joy  her  own  presence 
caused. 

4  Why  did  you  not  write?  Did  you  make  up  your  mind  to 
come  all  at  once  ? '  Sheila  asked  at  length,  in  a  low  voice. 

'No;  since  ever  Alastair  came  out  I  intended  to  come.  I 
was  afraid  to  write.' 


376  SHEILA. 

'Afraid!  of  what?' 

'  Afraid  lest  the  news  would  not  be  pleasant  to  you.  I  wanted 
to  see  for  myself.  I  thought  if  I  saw  your  face  I  would  know.' 

Sheila  did  not  ask  what  he  thought  now. 

'  It  is  five  years,  Sheila,  since  I  went  away,'  he  said  at  last. 

'I  thought  it  ten,'  Sheila  said  simply;  and  Fergus's  hand 
moved  a  little,  till  his  fingers  touched  her  arm.  But  still  he 
feared  to  speak. 

'May  I  get  down,  Fergus?  I  should  like  to  walk  a  little. 
O  no,  thank  you.' 

She  had  vaulted  lightly  from  the  saddle  before  Fergus  could 
lift  her,  and,  fastening  up  Rob  Roy's  bridle,  she  let  him  wander 
off  at  his  own  sweet  will.  He  was  a  discreet  beast,  and 
accustomed  to  all  his  young  mistress's  vagaries  of  mind.  So 
they  walked  on  a  little  way  in  silence, — a  silence  embarrassing, 
though  passing  sweet.  Love's  barrier  was  in  the  way.  In  the 
depth  of  his  strong  feeling  Fergus  could  not  find  words  to 
bridge  it. 

Presently  Sheila  looked  round,  and  gave  a  little  exclamation. 
'  Oh,  just  look  at  the  light  on  the  loch ! ' 

It  was  indeed  a  fairy  picture ;  the  silver  sheet  gleaming  in 
the  broad  white  moonlight  under  a  deep  blue  starlit  sky,  the 
dark  hills  encompassing  it  like  a  watchful  guard. 

'It  is  not  cold,  Sheila;  will  you  stand  a  little  at  this  gate?' 
said  Fergus,  after  a  moment ;  and  Sheila  stood  still,  with  her 
round  arm  lying  on  the  upper  bar,  and  her  face  turned  towards 
the  Glen.  Fergus,  looking  at  it,  thought  the  sweet  outline  more 
sharply  defined,  and  saw  a  weary  curve  about  the  mouth  which 
stabbed  him  to  the  heart.  Sheila  had  not  been  happy  in 
Dalraore  any  more  than  he  in  Canada.  But  he  had  yet  to  learn 
why  she  was  not  happy.  He  dared  not  believe  that  it  was  on 
account  of  him.  '  I  have  come  back,  Sheila,  as  I  said  I  would,' 
he  began,  in  full,  earnest,  manly  tones.  '  When  I  went  away,  I 
said  a  great  deal  about  coming  back  wealthy,  and  with  some- 
thing to  lay  at  your  feet.  I  have  nothing  except  a  clean 
record  for  five  years.  In  that  time  I  have  honestly  tried, 
with  God's  help,  to  live  as  He  would  have  me  live,  and  as 
you  would  like  me  to  live.  T  have  tried  to  live  so  that  the 


LOVE'S  CROWN.  377 

people  among  whom  I  lived  would  not  be  any  the  worse  of  my 
presence.' 

4  But  better — much  better,  Alastair  told  me,'  Sheila  said,  and 
her  face  was  all  aglow.  She  knew  nothing  of  coquetry  or 
affectation.  She  loved  Fergus,  and  he  was  by  her  side,  seeking 
her  love.  She  would  give  it  to  him,  not  grudgingly,  but  out 
of  the  fulness  of  her  heart. 

'  Now  that  I  have  come  back,  Sheila,  when  I  looked  on  the 
old  place,  and  saw  the  light  on  our  hills,  and  most  of  all,  when  I 
saw  your  face,  I  knew  that  life  holds  nothing  for  me  more  than 
what  is  here.  You  know  me,  Sheila, — all  I  have  been  and  am. 
Will  you  bridge  the  great  gulf  between  your  beautiful  life  and 
mine,  and  give  me  yourself?  I  can't  speak  about  my  love. 
I  will  prove  it  to  you,  if  you  will  try  me,  unworthy  though 
lam.' 

It  was  no  dishonour  to  his  manhood  that  his  voice  shook  and 
his  eye  grew  dim.  Sheila  never  spoke,  but  her  smile  became 
divine,  and  she  moved  close  to  him  and  laid  her  bright  head 
on  his  broad  breast ;  and  when  he  clasped  her,  as  a  man  clasps 
Heaven's  best  gift,  her  hands  met  about  his  neck,  and  her  soft 
cheek  touched  his.  And  so,  among  their  own  hills,  within  sight 
of  the  loch  and  the  clachan,  with  which  were  interwoven  the 
bright  memories  of  bairn  days,  these  two  entered  upon  that 
new  life  in  which  God  permits  His  creatures  to  taste  of 
heaven. 


And  so  Love  the  Omnipotent  healed  all  dd  sores,  made 
rough  places  plain,  and  smoothed  the  tangled  skein  into  a  web 
of  silken  sheen.  Fergus  Macleod  left  the  Glen  no  more  until 
he  took  his  wife  with  him.  There  was  no  reason  why  the 
marriage  should  be  delayed.  Sheila,  who  had  found  the 
waiting  so  dreary,  did  not  say  nay.  She  had  an  absolute  trust 
in  her  young  lover ;  she  had  proved  him  to  the  uttermost ;  and 
she  was  willing — nay  more,  unutterably  glad — to  give  herself 
to  him  without  a  question  or  a  doubt.  Fergus  accepted  this 
trust,  which  always  brings  out  all  that  is  best  and  most  worthy 
in  a  man,  with  a  humble  and  yet  confident  heart.  These  weeks 


378  SHEILA, 

before  the  wedding  were  a  dream  of  happiness  which  they 
thought  could  never  be  excelled.  They  had  so  much  to  tell,  so 
much  to  speak  of.  Sheila's  beautiful  and  simple  life  needed  no 
revealing ;  but  Fergus  told  her  all  that  was  in  his  own  soul 
He  had  a  high  ideal,  towards  the  attainment  of  which  he  would 
strive  with  all  the  manly  might  God  had  given  him.  To  live 
that  life  nobly,  to  do  to  the  utmost  whatever  duty  lay  to  his 
hand,  to  accept  every  responsibility  as  from  God, — when  such 
was  Fergus  Macleod's  estimate  of  life's  purpose,  I  marvel  not 
that  Sheila  went  forth  by  her  young  husband's  side  with  a 
heart  filled  to  the  brim  with  womanly  pride  and  unspeakable 
trust.  His  care  for  her  was  a  thing  of  which  I  cannot  write. 
She  was  more  precious  to  him  than  life ;  so,  in  the  shelter 
of  that  brave  and  stalwart  arm,  we  can  leave  our  Sheila 
safe. 

They  were  married  in  the  drawing-room  at  Dalmore  on  the 
fifteenth  day  of  October,  and  on  the  twenty-third  sailed  from 
Liverpool  for  New  York.  The  honeymoon  was  to  be  spent  at 
Sunshine  Hill,  where  the  mother's  heart  was  yearning  over 
them,  and  waiting  for  their  coming.  It  was  not  like  going  to 
a  strange  land,  Sheila  said  laughingly,  for  wherever  Donald 
and  Mary  Macalpine  were,  there  would  be  a  bit  of  home  for 
anybody  from  Glenquaich. 

They  spent  the  winter  in  Canada ;  and  in  the  spring,  when 
the  trees  were  in  bud,  and  the  primroses  yellow  on  the  banks 
of  the  burn,  they  came  home  to  their  own.  That  was  a  great 
day  for  the  Glen.  And  Ellen  Macleod  was  with  them, — a  sweet- 
faced,  gentle,  kindly  woman,  who  worshipped  her  new  daughter 
with  a  devoted  love.  She  abode  with  them  till  the  festivities 
of  their  home-coming  were  over,  and  then  retired  to  her  own 
house  of  Shonnen,  from  which  she  could  look  across  to  the 
sunlit  windows  of  Dalmore.  They  asked  her  to  share  their 
home ;  but  she,  being  wise,  kept  to  her  own  biggin',  but  spent 
many  a  long  day  at  the  old  house,  and  rejoiced  over  the  bairns 
there  with  a  joy  which  had  in  it  sometimes  a  touch  of  pain. 
For  in  the  old  days  she  had  missed  much  herself,  and  caused 
others  much  needless  pain. 

But  peace  and  love  and   happiness  reigned  at  Dalmore  and 


LOVE**  CROWN.  379 

in  the  Glen,  and  the  last  days  were  better  than  the  first.  Fergus 
fulfilled  all  the  best  promise  of  his  manhood,  and  became  a 
power  for  good  in  the  neighbourhood.  As  for  Sheila,  she  was 
content.  Love  was  her  life's  crown. 

Husband  and  wife  took  many  a  trip  to  their  Canadian 
estate,  which  Fergus  left  under  competent  management ; 
and  so  the  ties  were  uol  severed  between  the  old  world  ami 
the  uew. 


GLOSSARY  OF  SCOTCH  WORDS. 


A',  all.                              I 

Briobt,  bright. 

Daur,  dare. 

Abe,  be. 

Brither,  brother. 

Daurna,  dare  not. 

A  b  o  o  n     (or,    abu  ne), 

Brocht,  brought. 

Dawtie,      darling;     oat 

above. 

Brunt,  burned. 

doated  on. 

Aboot,  about. 

Bulk,  hook. 

Deave,  deafen. 

Adae,  either. 

Buirdly,   stout  ;    broad- 

Dee,  die. 

Ae,  one  ;  only. 
Aff.offi 

made. 
Bund,  bound. 

Deed  (or.  deid),  dead. 
Denty,  dainty. 

Aff-pittin',  putting  off 

Burn  (or,  burnie),  rivu- 

Didna,  did  not. 

Aff-putten,  cast  off. 

let. 

Dinna,  do  not. 

Aiblins,  perhaps. 

But  and  ben,  hank  room 

Disna,  does  not. 

Aln,  own. 

and  sitting-room. 

Div.  do. 

Ainoe  (or,  ance),  one*. 

Byre,  cow-stable  ;  sheep- 

Dochter,  daughter. 

Airth,  earth. 

pen. 

Donnert,  stupid. 

Amang,  among. 

Doo.  dove. 

Ane,  one. 

CAIRN,    a   mound   of 

Dool,  grief,  trouble. 

Anent,  concerning. 

stones. 

Doon,  down. 

Anither,  another. 

Canna,  can  not. 

Doot,  doubt. 

A'  thing,   all   things; 

Canny,  gentle;  well-dii- 

Douce,  grave  ;  serious. 

every  thing. 

posed. 

Dour,  grim. 

Auld,  old. 

Cauld,  cold. 

Dowie,  sad. 

A  va'  ,  at  till. 

Ceevil,  civil. 

Dreich,  slow;  tedious. 

Awa',  away. 

Certy,  for  certain,  •ore  ; 

D  rook  it,     drenched; 

indeed. 

drowned. 

BADE,  staid. 

Chairge,  charge. 

Droon,  drown. 

Bairn,  child. 

Chap,  tap  i  thrum. 

Drucken,  drunk. 

Baith,  both. 

Cheep,  chirp  ;  a  word. 

Dumbfoondered,  a  m  azed. 

Barmet,  bonnet. 
Bauld,  bold. 

Chid  (or,  ehield,)  young 
man. 

Dune,  done. 
Dwine,  dwindle. 

Bawbee,  a  lialf-penny. 

Claes,  clothes. 

Behauden,  beholden. 
Ben,  in. 
Ben-end,  parlor  or  sit- 
ting-room ;  kitchen. 
Bide,  stay. 
Biggin,  building,  house. 
Binna,  be  not  ;  is  not. 
Birr,  to  make  a  whirring 
noise. 

Claith,  cloth. 
Clash,   talk;    converse; 
gossip. 
Clnd,  cloud. 
Coont,  count. 
Coorse,  course. 
Crack,  talk  ;  gossip. 
Cratur,  creature. 
Craw,  crow. 

EE  (or,  e'e),  eye. 
Een  (or,  e'en),  eyes. 
Eerie,  timorous  ;  afraid. 
Efter,  afier. 
Efternune,  afternoon. 
E  m  b  r  o,      Edinboro'  ; 
Edinburgh. 
Eneuch     (or,    eneugh), 

Bluid,  blood. 
Bode,     same    u    bade, 

Creepie,  stool  ;  hassock. 
Crood,  crowd. 

enough. 
Ettle,  intend  ;  aim  at  ; 

staid. 
Bonnie,  or  bonny,  beau- 

Croon, crown. 
Croose  (or,  crouse,)  pert  ; 

attempt. 
Even  doon,  downright. 

tiful. 

bold. 

Bonnieness,  cleverness. 

Cutty,   short;    small  in 

FAITHKR,  father. 

Bothy,  hutj  cottage. 

stature. 

Farl,  cake. 

Brne,    a   hill-slope,    ac- 

Fash, trouble  ;  annoy. 

clivity. 

DAB,  do. 

Fashious,  helpless. 

Braw,  fine. 

Duffing,  sporting. 

Faur,  far. 

Brawly,  finely  ;  well. 

Daft,  foolish  ;  mad. 

Faut,  fault. 

Braid,  broad. 

Dauchter,  daughter. 

Fecht,  fight 

GLOSSARY  OF  SCOTCH  WORDS. 


Feckless,  worthless; 

HAB,  have. 

Lave,  remainder  ;  rest. 

feeble. 

Haen,  had. 

Leddy,  lady. 

FecklessneM,      careless- 

Haena, have  not. 

Leal,  loyal  ;  faithful. 

ness. 

Hail  (or,  hale),  whole. 

Lee,  lie. 

Fell,  keen  or  keenly. 

llairst,  harvest. 

Len',  loan. 

Fend,  provide. 

Hatne,  home. 

Leeve,  live. 

Ferlie,     wonder     (con- 

H a  n  1  1  e,    a    handful  ; 

Licht.  light. 

temptuously);  a  fancy. 
Fesh,  fetch. 

much  ;  many. 
Hasna,  lias  not. 

Lieh  t  lie,  sneer  at  ;  treat 
with  contempt. 

Fit,  foot 

Haud,  hold. 

Lichtit,  lighted. 

Flichter,  flutter. 

Havena,  have  not. 

Llkit,  liked. 

Fiooer,  flower. 

Heid,  head. 

Liinmer,  a  wanton. 

I'lure,  floor. 

Hplpit,  helped. 

Lippen,  trust. 

Hyte,  •'•old. 

Hing,  hang. 

Lookit,  looked. 

Foondry,  foundry. 

llinna,  have  not. 

Lug,  ear. 

Forebear    (or,   forbear), 

Uizzie,  young  woman; 

Lum,  chimney. 

ancestress  ;  ancestor. 

torn-boy. 

Forbye,  besides. 

Hoo,  how. 

MA.  my. 

Foment,  opposite. 
Forrit,  forward. 

Hoolet,  owl  :  owlet. 
Hooly,  slowly. 

Mair,  more. 
Maist,  most. 

Foucht,  fought. 

1  1  only  1     take    leisure  ; 

Maister,  master. 

Frwe,  from. 

stop  I 

Maitter,  matter. 

Freend,  friend. 

Hoose,  house. 

Mane,  fuss  ;  ado. 

Frein,  strange. 

Hopi  t,  hoped. 

Maun,  must. 

Fricht,  fright. 

Houp,  hope. 

Maunna,  must  not. 

Fule,  fool. 

Howdy-hole,  closet. 

Micht,  might. 

Fusliionless,     incompe- 

Howin, hoeing. 

Midden-dyke,  garden 

tent. 

Hubble,  confusion. 

wall:  ditch. 

Mirk,  dark. 

<  ;  A  E,  go. 

ILK  or  ilka,  each  ;  every. 

Mil  her,  mother. 

Gaed,  went. 

Inlae  (and,  iutil),  into. 

Mony,  many. 

Gaffer,  direct. 

Ither,  other. 

Moosle,  mouse. 

Gait,  way. 

Mou',  mouth. 

Gune,  gone. 

JIMPY,     little  ;      neat  ; 

Muckle,  much. 

Gang,  go. 

slender. 

Muirland,  moor. 

Gar,  make. 

Jist,  just. 

Muue-licht,  moon-light 

Gawn,  going. 

Gear,  goods  ;  property. 
Genty,  elegantly  formed; 
neat;  high-bred. 

KEBBDCK,  a  cheese-cake. 
Keek,    peep;     look 
sharply. 

N  A  (or,  nae),  no,  not. 
Nae,  none. 
Naebody,  nobody. 

Gey,  very  ;  pretty. 

Keepil,  kept. 

Naething,  nothing. 

Geyan,  very. 

Ken,  know. 

Neelior,  neighbor. 

Gie.give. 

Kenna,  know  not. 

Needna,  need  not. 

Gien,  given. 

Kennin',  knowing. 

Neist,  next. 

Gif(or,gin),if. 

Kent     (or,    kenned), 

Nicht,  night. 

Girn,  grin  ;  snarl  at. 

known,  knew. 

Koo,  now  :  at  the  noo, 

Glaiket,  thoughtless; 

K>p,  cape. 

at  present  ;  at  once. 

foolish. 

Kintry,  country. 

Olisk,  glimpse. 

Kirn,     harvest     home  ; 

OCHT,  might. 

Gloaming,  twilight. 

harvest  legist. 

Ougauns,     going!     on; 

Gomeril,     fool  ;     dolt  ; 

Kittle,    ticklish;    nice; 

doings. 

blockhead. 

intricate. 

Ony,  any. 

Goon,  gown. 

Kye,  cows. 

Oo,  yes. 

Gowan,  wild  daisy. 

'Oornan,  woman. 

Grabbit.  grabbed. 
Grat,  cried. 

LAIRD,  lord  ;  a  land-pro- 
prietor. 

Oor,  our. 
Oot    (or,    ooteu),    out; 

Grawn,  grand. 

Lairn,  learn. 

out  of. 

Greet,  cry. 

Lammie.  little  lamb. 

Oucht,  ought. 

Grue,  shudder;  shiver. 

Lane  (his,  her,  its,  etc.), 

Ower,  over. 

Grund,  ground. 

alone. 

Oxter,  arm  -pit. 

Gude  (or,  guid),  good. 

Lang,  long. 

Gump,  wade. 

Lauch,  laugh. 

PAIDL'T,  paddled. 

GLOSSARY  OF  SCOTCH  WORDS. 


Pat,  pot 
Patrick    (or,    paitrick), 

Spate,  flood. 
Speer    (or,    spier),   ask 

Unneeborly;      unneigh 
borly. 

partridge. 

for;  inquire. 

Uphaud,  uphold. 

Peety,  pity. 

Speerit,  spirit 

Pit,  put. 

Stanes,  stones. 

VKKBA,  very. 

Pleesture,  pleasure. 

Steer,  stare. 

Pooer,  power. 

Stoop,   a   prop;    a    post 

WAD  (or,  wud),  would. 

Poo'rless,  powerless. 

fixed  in  the  earth. 

Waddin',  wedding. 

Prig,  cheapen  ;  dispute. 

Stoory,  dusty  ;  stormy. 

Wae,  sorrowful  ;  sad. 

Prood,  proud. 

Stoppit,  stopped. 

Waggit,  wagged. 

Pulr,  poor. 

Stour.  dust. 

Wantit,  wanted. 

Patten,  pat 

Stracht     (or,     strecht), 

Wark,  work. 

straight. 

Warld,  world. 

QOATB,  quiet 

StnivHge,     wander     or 

Warst,  worst. 

Quean,   servant  -  maid  ; 

stray. 

Warstle,  struggle. 

young  woman. 

Stude  (or,  studer),  stood. 

W«ur,  worse. 

Sune,  soon. 

Weans,  babes  ;  children. 

RAIL,  real. 

Suite  n,  set 

Wechty,  weighty. 

Keek,  smoke. 

Syne,  after;  ago. 

Wee.  little. 

Reem,  run  orer. 

"VVeei,  well. 

Richt,  right 

TAB,  to. 

Whae,who. 

Rio,  run. 

Tapsalteerie,  topsy- 

Whan, when. 

Koond,  round. 

turvy. 

Whatten,  wtont;   which 

Boup,  sale, 
••wan.    the    mountain 

Tatties,  potatoes. 
Telt,  told. 

one. 
Whaur,  where. 

aih. 

Tern  pit,  tempted. 

Wheen,    a   number;    a 

Bowth,  plenty. 

Thack,  thatch. 

good  deal. 

Thae,  those. 

Wheesht,  be  calm,  hush. 

BA»,  so. 
••tr,  sore  ;  very, 

Thegither,  together. 
Thocht,  thought. 

Whiles     (or,     whyles), 
sometimes. 

•rat,  salt 

Thole,  bear  ;  endure. 

Whing,  cry  ;   complain  ; 

•eoiie,  cake. 

Thon,  those. 

fret. 

Bkoor,  scour. 

Thowless,    slack  ;    lazy  ; 

Winna,  will  not. 

Soon,  shoes. 

heedless. 

Withhaud,  withhold. 

:  (or,  siccan),  such. 

Tii  rapple,  throat;  wind- 

Workit, worked. 

Sicht,  sight 

pipe. 

Wrang,  wroug. 

Siller,  silver. 

Thraw  (or,  throw),  twist; 

Wudna,  would  not. 

Simmer,  summer. 

quarrel  ;  be  cross. 

Wull,  will. 

Sin,  since  ;  after. 

Thrawn,  cross  ;  perverse; 

Wullint,  willing. 

Sinsyne,  afterward. 

quarrelsome. 

Wunner,  wonder. 

Bkelly,  squint. 
Skep,  hive  for  bees. 

Thrawnness,  perversity. 
Thraid,  thread. 

Wush,  wish. 

Slippit,  slipped. 

Till,  to. 

YAMMER    (or,  yauuier), 

ftneddom,  spirit;  met- 

Toon, town. 

fret;  scold. 

tle. 

Twa,  two. 

Yestreen,    yester   even- 

Snell,   biting  ;    severe  ; 

Twar,  twelve. 

ing. 

sharp. 

Yett,  gate. 

Socli  t,  sought 

UNKKNT,  unknown. 

Yirls,  earls. 

Bodger,  soldier. 

Unco,  very,  strange. 

Yont,  beyoad, 

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ACROSS  HER  PATH, By  Annie  S.  Swan 

ALDERSYDE, By  Annie  S.  Swan 

THE  AYRES  OF  STUDLEIGH, By  Annie  S.  Swan 

BARBARA  LEYBOURNE, By  Sarah  Selina  Hamer 

BRIER  AND  PALM, By  Annie  S.  Swan 

CAMERTON  SLOPE, By  R.  F.  Bishop 

CARLOWRIE, By  Annie  S.  Swan 

THE  COLONEL'S  CHARGE, By  Carlisle  B.  Holding 

DORIS  CHEYNE, By  Annie  S.  Swan 

THE  GATES  OF  EDEN, By  Annie  S.  Swan 

HER  BEN, By  Carlisle  B.  Holding 

HlLDEBRAND  AND    ClCILY, By  M.  A.  Paul 

IN  His  OWN  WAY, By  Carlisle  B.  Holding 

THE  LEAST  OF  THESE By  L.  T.  Meade 

LIFE  ON  A  BACKWOODS  FARM, By  Wm.  Riley  HalsteaJ 

THE  LITTLE  CORPORAL, By  Carlisle  B.  Holding 

MAITLAND  OF  LAURISTON, By  Annie  S.  Swan 

NORMAN  REID,  M.  A., By  Jessie  Patrick  Findlay 

AN  ODD  FELLOW, By  Carlisle  B.  Holding 

ROCKTON, By  Kel  Snow 

ST.  VEDA'S, By  Annie  S.  Swan 

SHEILA, By  Annie  S.  Swan 

THE  UNEQUAL  FOUR, By  Samuel  W.  Odell 

A  VEXED  INHERITANCE, By  Annie  S.  Swan 

THE  YOUNG  ARTISTS, By  Mary  E.  Ireland 


CINCINNATI:   JENNINGS  &  PYE 
NEW  YORK:    EATON  &  MAINS 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


MAY  02 1988 


3  1158012526389 


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